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University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


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YOICES  FROM  THE  PRESS ; 


A  COLLECTION 


OF 


SKETCHES,  ESSAYS,  AND  POEMS, 


BY 


PRACTICAL    PRINTERS. 


EDITED   BY 


JAMES  J.  BRENTON 


NEW-YORK: 
CHARLES  B.  NORTON,  71  CHAMBERS-STREET, 

(IRVING   HOUSE.) 
1850. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1849,  by 
JAMES  J.  BRENTON, 

tn  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern  District 
of.  New- York. 


J.  J.  BRENTON,  PRINTER, 
Jamaica,  L.  I. 


PREFACE. 


LET  it  not  be  to  any  a  subject  of  special  wonder  that  they 
who  have  so  often  assisted  in  ushering  into  the  world  the  pro- 
ductions of  others  should  now  in  turn  venture  to  originate 
ideas  of  their  own,  and  appear  before  the  public  in  the  ambi- 
tious character  of  Authors.  Aside  from  the  peculiar  right 
which  our  fraternity  has  to  be  heard,  there  are  plenty  of  pre- 
cedents to  justify  the  propriety  of  this  publication ;  many 
books  have  been  issued  which  derive  much  of  their  interest 
from,  and  rest  their  claims  to  patronage  on,  the  fraternal 
feelings  of  party,  similarity  of  profession,  or  particular  local- 
ity; why  then  may  not  the  Printer  avail  himself  of  this  social 
instinct  of  our  nature,  and  put  forth  his  modest  claims^  to 
notice  ? 

The  chief  merit  of  this  volume  consists  not  so  much  in  its 
literary  excellence,  as  in  the  evidence  it  exhibits  of  what  in- 
dustry and  application,  unaided  by  wealth  and  patronage,  can 
accomplish.  Many  of  the  articles  were  written  by  those 
who  were  born  under  the  most  unfavorable  auspices — cast  in 
early  life  destitute  upon  the  world,  and  forced  to  rely  solely 
on  their  own  exertions ;  but  by  cultivating  the  nobler  parts  of 
their  nature  all  have  won  for  themselves  "  a  good  name,  which 


751722 


IV  PREFACE 

is  better  than  riches,"  and  some,  drinking  more  deeply  at 
wisdom's  fount,  are  now  reaping  reward  and  fame  in  the 
higher  walks  of  literature  and  science. 

After  reading  this  volume,  let  not  even  the  poor  printer's 
devil  sink  his  head  in  sullen  despair,  but  take  courage,  and  be 
assured  that  the  path  to  honor  and  usefulness  is  as  open  and 
free  to  him  as  to  the  most  highly  favored  son  of  affluence  and 
birth.  Though  we  cannot  all  be  Franklins,  yet,  if  we  will 
take  him  for  our  model,  we  shall  learn  "  that  a  resolute  and 
uncomplaining  performance  of  duty,  whatever  our  condition 
in  life — the  desire  and  the  effort  to  be  useful  to  our  fellow- 
men  in  the  humblest  as  well  as  the  highest  relations — is  the 
infallible  method  of  developing  our  highest  capabilities — the 
only  sure  road  to  that  peace  and  repose  we  all  so  earnestly 


The  Editor  avails  himself  of  this  opportunity  to  tender  his 
heartfelt  thanks  to  those  who  have  cheered  him  with  their 
smiles  and  furnished  contributions  to  the  work ;  and  while  he 
regrets  that  his  limited  village  office  did  not  afford  him  facili- 
ties to  produce  a  book  more  in  character  with  the  matter,  yet 
he  hopes  that  this  experiment  will  enable  him  soon  to  publish 
another  volume,  equal  in  all  respects  to  any  issued  from  the 
press. 

J.  J.  B 

Jamaica,  L.  /.,  Jan  ,  lnf»0. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

Notices  of  Contributors,      ....  THE  EDITOR, vii 

The  Water-Stream — the  Life-Stream,  FRANKLIN  j.  OTTERSON,  ...  13 

The  Theory  of  Mind, JAMES  R.  TRUMBULL,  ....  17 

Song  of  the  Reclaimed, JOHN  j.  ADAMS, 26 

The  Tomb  Blossoms, WALTER  WHITMAN,     ....  27 

A  Fragment, WILLIAM  w.  HOLDE.N,  ....  34 

Character  of  Washington,  ....  ELY  MOORE, 35 

A  Plea  for  the  Poor, REV.  A.  G.  HALL, 41 

Lord  Byron, ALEXANDER  B.  COFFIN,     ...  50 

The  Press, JAMES  R.  TRUMBULL,  ....  51 

Sonnet, -  .  HORACE  GREELEY, 56 

Italy, N.  p.  WILLIS, 56 

The  Bright  Spirit  Land, WILLIAM  B.  MARSH,    ....  57 

Consolatory, LYMAN  w.  HALL, 59 

To  a  Wave, JAMES  o.  ROCKWELL,  ....  62 

The  Human  Voice, GEORGE  p.  MORRIS,      ....  63 

Woman, JOHN  j.  ADAMS, 64 

Thoughts, WILLIAM  W.  HOLDEN,  ....  65 

The  Pilgrimage  to  Manhood,    .     .     .  HORACE  GREELEY, 67 

Fragments, WILLIAM  B.  MARSH,     ....  76 

The  Needle, SAMUEL  WOODWORTH,      ...  77 

The  Priceless  Pearl, ISAAC  F.  JONES, 78 

Love, BAYARD  TAYLOR, 79 

The  Widow  by  Brevet, N.  PARKER  WILLIS,      ....  81 

The  Miniature, GEORGE  P.  MORRJS,      ....  94 

Mental  Industry, ELY  MOORE, 95 

The  Ideal  of  a  True  Life,   ....  HORACE  GREELEY, 103 

The  Jour.  Printer's  Monument,    .     .  B.  p.  SHILLABER, 107 

The  Press, WILLIAM  o.  BOURNE,    ....  110 

Home, BENJAMIN  J.  BRENTON,        .      .       .  Ill 

The  Gentle  Bird, GEORGE  p.  MORRIS,      .     .     .     .  112 

Extract— Address  on  Temperance,    .  ELY  MOORE, 113 

Franklin,      .    .     .    '. BAYARD  TAYLOR, 119 

The  Orphan  Maid, SAMUEL  WOODWORTH,       .     .     .  120 

A  few  Thoughts  for  Young  Men,      .  REV.  HARRY  CROSSWELL,  D.D.,  .  121 

Caroline, A.  E.  GORDON, 135 

La  Fioraja, BAYARD  TAYLOR, 137 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Reformer, WILLIAM  o.  BOURNE,    ....  149 

Sonnet, THOMAS  w.  RENNIE,     ....  161 

The  Church-Yard, PETER  c.  BAKER, 162 

The  Dead  Marine, H.  c.  JOHNSON, 163 

Man's  Strength  and  Weakness,    .     .    PETER  c.  BAKER, 167 

Mutation, A.  E.  GORDON, 172 

A  Fragment, JAMES  j.  BRENTON, 173 

The  Death-Bed  of  Beauty,  .     .     .    .    J.  o.  ROCKWELL, 175 

The  Two  Carpenters, H.  c.  JOHNSON, 176 

Franklin, JOHN  L.  JEWETT, 185 

The  Genius  of  the  Press,    ....  EDWARD  A.  M'LAUGHLIN,      .     .  207 

The  Triumph  of  Temperance,      .     .    PETER  c.  BAKER, 209 

What  are  you  good  for  ?      ....    B.  R.  BARLOW, 210 

The  Baptism  of  Christ,  .     .     .     .  *  .    N.  p.  WILLIS, 217 

Address  before  Boston  Typog'l  Soc'ty,    B.  PERLEY  POORE, 219 

The  Brook, w.  H.  BURLEIGH, 236 

The  Times, w.  H.  BURLEIGH, 236 

Adam's  Dream, JOHN  G.  CLAYTON,   .....  237 

Reflections  over  a  Sleeping  Child,    .    p.  SQUIRES, 245 

Eminent  Printers, CHARLES  c.  HAZEWELL,    ...  246 

To  my  Native  Place, THOMAS  w.  RENNIE,     ....  247 

Innocence — Guilt — Repentance,  .     .    REV.  w.  A.  JENKS, 249 

The  Exile  to  his  Sister, GEORGE  p.  MORRIS,      ....  253 

Benevolent  Institutions, PETER  c.  BAKER, 254 

Moses  Striking  the  Rock,    .    .     .    .    F.  j.  OTTERSON, 255 

Autumn, CHARLES  s.  TODD, 257 

Kvpie,  Stdagov  rjfuis  irpoo-cvxfcftai,      .  REV.  WM.  ALFRED  JENKS,       .     .  259 

American  Liberty, PETER  c.  BAKER, 261 

Man  Considered, ,    .     G.  M.  BOURNE, 265 

Lines — The  Graves  of  Two  Sisters, .  THOMAS  w.  RENNIE,     ....  276 

Conservative  Power  of  the  Press,      .  CHARLES  c.  HAZEWELL,   ...  277 

The  old  Ramage  Press, WILLIAM  o.  BOURNE,    ....  280 

O  give  me  back  my  rugged  Home,    .  EDWARD  A.  M'LAUGHLIN,      .    .  282 

Edward  Carlyle, JAMES  j.  BRENTON, 284 

Yield  not, w.  c>  TOBEY, 294 

Cinqua. THOMAS  w.  RENNIE,     ....  295 

The  old  Printer,    .......    B.  p.  SHILLABER, 296 

An  Epitaph  on  a  Printer,     ....    E.  A.  M'L., 298 


APPENDIX. 

Printing  in  America.-Early  Printers.-Beranger,  a  Printer.-The  Aldine  Family.-Female 
Printers.— The  Printer's  Boyi— Printers  and  Authors.— A  Century  Ago.— A  Printer-Professor.— 
Poor  Richard's  Almanac. 


NOTICES  OF  CONTRIBUTES. 


ADAMS,  JOHN  J.,  was  the  author  of  the  "  Charter  Oak  and  other  Poems,"  and 
contributed  to  many  of  the  leading  periodicals.  He  died  a  few  years  since.  We 
have  not  been  able  to  procure  the  particulars  of  his  life,  but  his  name  is  well  known 
to  many  printers. 

BAKER,  PETER  C.,  was  born  March  25th,  1822,  at  North  Hempstead,  Queens 
Co.,  Long  Island.  At  the  age  of  twelve  he  entered  the  bookstore  of  Mr.  John 
Kasang,  in  Division-st.,  New- York.  Upon  the  death  of  Mr.  K.,  the  bookstore 
was  purchased  by  Messrs.  Silvester  &  Owens,  Printers.  Continuing  with  them, 
Mr.  Baker's  taste  soon  led  him  into  their  printing  office,  where  he  remained  till 
they  discontinued  business,  when,  being  desirous  of  completing  his  trade,  he  entered 
the  office  of  Mr.  Wm.  E.  Dean,  with  whom  he  remained  till  of  age. 

When  about  nineteen,  Mr.  B.,  with  another  apprentice,  started  a  weekly  paper, 
devoted  to  the  interests  of  Young  Men's  Literary  Societies,  but  after  continuing  it 
for  nearly  a  year,  doing  most  of  the  writing,  composition,  presswork,  and  delivery, 
after  working  ten  hours  for  their  employers,  the  apprentices  became  tired  of  the 
"  fun,"  as  they  termed  it  at  first,  and  gladly  transferred  their  labors  to  other  hands. 

Soon  after  completing  his  apprenticeship,  Mr.  B.  became  foreman  for  Mr.  John 
Gray,  one  of  the  oldest  book  and  job  printers  of  the  city.  At  present  he  has 
charge  of  the  composition  department  of  Mr.  John  F.  Trow's  extensive  printing 
establishment,  Ann-st.,  New- York. 

Mr.  Baker  is,  perhaps,  better  known  as  a  speaker  than  as  a  writer.  At  an 
early  age  he  became  zealously  engaged  in  the  temperance  reform,  and,  by  his 
addresses  in  various  parts  of  the  country,  has  contributed  not  a  little  to  the  ad- 
vancement of  this  great  and  good  cause. 

Mr.  B.  has  recently  been  elected  President  of  the  New- York  Typographical 
Society,  an  institution  which  numbers  among  its  members  many  of  the  most  pro- 
minent printers  of  our  country. 

BARLOW,  BENJAMIN  R.,  was  born  in  1820,  in  Genesee  Co.,  N.  Y.  He  com- 
menced his  apprenticeship  with  J.  M.  Patterson,  in  Syracuse,  in  1833,  and  after 
alternating  for  several  years  between  printing  in  winter,  and  farming  in  summer, 
and  selling  drugs  and  dry  goods,  finally  made  choice  of  the  printing  business  as  a 


Vlll  NOTICES       OF       CONTRIBUTORS. 

permanent  pursuit  in  1839.  He  arrived  in  New- York  in  1842,  and,  as  a  journey- 
man or  employer,  has  resided  in  the  city  to  the  present  time.  Mr.  B.  is  an 
active  member  of  several  societies,  before  which  he  has  frequently  lectured  with 
much  success,  and  is  deservedly  esteemed  among  his  associates  for  his  intelligence, 
enterprise,  and  uprightness  of  character. 

BOURNE,  WM.  OLAND,  sixth  son  of  the  late  Rev.  George  Bourne,  of  the  city  of 
New- York,  was  born  at  Germantown,  Penn.,  and  is  now  in  his  thirty-first  year. 
In  his  thirteenth  year  he  entered  a  printing  office  in  New- York,  to  earn  his  own 
subsistence,  and  carve  out  his  way  in  the  world ;  and  up  to  the  present  time  has 
labored  almost  uninterruptedly  at  the  printing  business ;  being  now  printer  of  the 
"  Northern  Journal,"  Lowville,  N.  Y.,  and  enjoying  the  reputation  of  a  successful 
editorship. 

The  subject  of  our  sketch  is  more  extensively  known  as  a  poet  than  as  a  prose 
writer ;  yet  the  pages  of  Silliman's  Journal,  The  New  Englander,  American  Re- 
view, many  of  the  Magazines,  and  the  columns  of  leading  newspapers,  bear  ample 
testimony  to  the  fact,  that  his  prose  contributions  to  science,  religion,  education, 
and  morals,  are  deemed  not  unworthy  the  space  they  occupy.  As  an  evidence  of 
the  facility  with  which  he  composes,  it  is  only  necessary  to  say,  that  since  he  first 
contributed  to  the  press  he  has  been  almost  always  actively  employed  as  a  journey- 
man. We  may  justly  anticipate  for  Mr.  Bourne  an  enviable  reputation  in  the 
walks  of  Literature  and  Science,  when  his  leisure  shall  permit  him  to  cultivate 
more  extensively  his  talents.  It  is  understood  to  have  been  a  favorite  maxim  of 
Mr.  B.,  from  his  youth  up,  that  "  slow  acquisition  is  a  safe  road  to  possession," 
and  that  it  has  been  his  rule  "  to  learn  at  least  one  new  thing  every  day  ; — a  fact 
in  history,  science,  or  philosophy — a  new  truth — a  principle  drawn  from  the  obser- 
vation of  men — whatever  it  be,  that  adds  at  least  one  new  increment  to  the  store 
already  gained — every  day."  This,  in  ten  years,  is  an  acquaintance  with  nearly 
four  thousand  facts,  and  to  such  a  mind,  the  physical  or  moral  principles  connected 
with  them,  give  a  power  sufficient  to  enable  a  man  to  leave  his  impress  upon  the 
world. 

BOURNE,  G.  M.,  brother  of  Wm.  Oland. — Of  him  it  may  be  said,  the  printing 
office  was  his  alma  mater. 

The  publication  of  a  penny  daily  stands  most  conspicuous  among  many  of  his 
originalities ;  from  the  results  of  its  accomplishment.  But  this  project  he  was 
forced  to  abandon  for  lack  of  capital,  and  because  he  could  not  induce  one  of  the 
most  respected  and  oldest  of  our  city  craftsmen  (who  furnished  the  estimates,  and 
still  is  in  business)  to  take  a  pecuniary  interest  in  it, — and  this  more  than  a  year 
previous  to  the  establishment  of  the  "New- York  Sun,"  the  pioneer  of  the  penny  press. 

A  Reformer  in  the  largest  sense  of  the  word,  he  has  contributed  to  the  pro- 
gressive movements  of  the  age,  quietly  but  effectively.  He  is  author  of  a  Treatise 
upon  Epidemic  Cholera,  of  which  the  Water-Cure  Journal,  edited  by  Dr.  Shew, 
thus  speaks : — 

"  This  is  a  pithy,  concise,  sententious  Treatise,  which  should  be  in  every  family. 
A  person  can  read  the  whole  in  an  hour,  and  will  know  as  much  of  the  subject, 
and  be  as  capable  of  putting  its  instructions  into  practice,  at  the  end  of  that  time, 
as  if  he  had  just  finished  reading  any  other  book  that  would  require  a  week's  time. 


NOTICES       OF       CONTRIBUTORS.  IX 

A  hundred  thousand  copies  should  be  disseminated  at  once,  and  those  who  are  too  , 
poor  to  buy  a  book  at  twelve  and  a  half  cents,  should  be  supplied  from  the  public 
funds.     We  regret  that  it  was  not  issued  a  yeaj  ago;  but  the  old  'adage  says, 
'  Better  late  than  never.'      It  is  a  valuable  little  book  for  all  times." 

BRENTON,  JAMES  J.,  was  born  in  Pittstown,  N.  Y.,  in  1806.  In  May,  1817,  he 
entered  the  printing  office  of  the  late  Wm.  Simons,  in  Newport,  R.  I.  In  1829 
he  commenced  the  publication  of  the  "  Washington  County  Advocate,"  in  Wick- 
ford,  R.  I.  ;  the  year  following  the  establishment  was  removed  to  Kingston,  in  the 
same  county,  and  the  title  of  the  paper  changed  to  "  Rhode  Island  Advocate." 
At  the  conclusion  of  the  year  the  paper  was  discontinued.  In  May,  1835,  he 
established  the  "  Long  Island  Democrat,"  at  Jamaica,  L.  I.,  and  has  conducted  it 
until  the  presenj  time. 

BRENTON,  BENJAMIN  J.,  was  born  in  Kingston,  R.  I.,  in  February,  1831.  He 
commenced  the  printing  business  in  the  office  of  his  father,  the  editor  of  this  book, 
in  1846. 


,  WILLIAM  H.,  was  born  in  Woodstock,  Conn.,  in  1812.  In  his 
infancy,  Mr.  B.'s  parents  removed  to  Plainfield,  in  his  native  State.  Here  his  time 
was  devoted  to  the  culture  of  his  father's  farm,  varied  by  the  customary  attendance 
in  a  district  school  through  the  winter,  until  he  was  sixteen,  when  he  proposed  to 
become  an  apprentice  to  a  neighboring  clothier,  but  abandoned  the  idea  after  two 
weeks'  trial,  from*  an  inveterate  loathing  of  the  coarseness  and  brutality  of  those 
among  whom  he  was  placed  to  labor.  Here,  however,  while  engaged  in  the  re- 
pulsive cares  of  his  employment,  he  composed  his  first  sonnet,  which  was  published  in 
a  gazette  printed  in  the  vicinity.  Returning  to  his  father's  house,  he,  in  the  fol- 
lowing summer,  became  an  apprentice  to  the  printing  business,  which  he  left  after 
eight  months'  endurance,  leaving  in  his  "  stick  "  a  farewell  couplet  to  his  master. 
He  did  not,  however,  desert  the  business,  of  which  he  had  thus  [obtained  some 
slight  knowledge,  but  continued  to  labor  as  half-apprentice,  half-journeyman,  sub- 
editor, &c.,  through  the  next  seven  years.  In  July,  1836,  abandoning  the  printing 
business  for  a  season,  he  commenced  a  new  career  as  a  public  lecturer,  under  the 
auspices  of  a  Philanthropic  Society,  and  continued  in  his  new  employment  for 
two  yearsT  At  the  close  of  that  period,  he  assumed  the  editorship  of  "  The  Chris- 
tian Witness,"  at  Pittsburgh,  Penn.,  which  he  held  two  years  and  a  half,  when  he 
resigned  it  to  take  charge  of  "  The  Washington  Banner,"  Alleghany.  We  do  not 
know  his  present  location. 

CLAYTON,  JOHN  G.,  belongs  to  a  family  which  has  furnished  Printers  for  the 
three  generations  it  has  existed  in  this  country.  His  father,  Wm.  H.  Clayton,  was 
a  Printer,  and  his  predilections  to  the  trade  were  imbibed  from  a  maternal  uncle, 
who  was  also  engaged  in  the  business. 

In  1823,  Mr.  C.  was  apprenticed  to  the  late  Wm.  Grattan  in  New-  York  city, 
and  remained  with  him  till  his  death  in  1827,  after  which  he  finished  his  trade 
with  Adoniram  Chandler,  the  Stereotyper.  In  1830,  in  company  with  the  late 
Justice  Levi  H.  Clark,  he  established  the  ''National  Union,"  a  weekly  newspaper, 
at  Trenton,  N.  J.  The  paper  not  yielding  a  sufficient  support  for  two,  he  removed 
to  Malone,  Franklin  Co.,  N.  Y.,  in  the  fall  of  1830,  and  commenced  the  publica- 
1 


X  NOTICES       OF       CONTRIBUTORS. 

tion  of  the  "Northern  Spectator."  This  journal  is  still  published  under  another 
name.  In  May,  1832,  he  returned  to  New- York,  where,  after  working  some  time 
as  a  journeyman,  he  became  connected  with  the  New- York  Commercial  Advertiser, 
first  as  clerk,  then  as  reporter,  and  finally  as  assistant  editor,  which  last  situation  he 
now  retains. 

CROSSWELL,  Rev.  HARRY,  D.  D.,  served  a  regular  apprenticeship  to  the  printing 
business  with  an  elder  brother,  in  Catskill,  N.  Y.  The  subsequent  fourteen  years 
of  his  life  were  chiefly  spent  in  the  business  of  a  practical  printer,  during  which 
time  he  was  proprietor,  publisher,  and  editor  of  several  literary  and  political  journals, 
including  "  The  Balance,"  published  seven  years  in  Hudson,  and  subsequently  in 
Albany.  Having  relinquished  his  secular  pursuits  in  1812,  he  pursued  a  course  of 
theological  study,  and  on  the  8th  of  May,  1814,  was  admitted  to  the  holy  order 
of  Deacons,  by  Bishop  Hobart,  in  St.  John's  Church,  New- York,  and  on  the  6th  of 
June,  1815,  was  admitted  to  the  Priesthood,  by  Bishop  Griswold,  in  Middletowu, 
Conn.  After  spending  a  few  months  of  his  diaconate  as  Rector  of  Christ's  Church, 
Hudson,  he  accepted  a  call  to  the  Rectorship  of  Trinity  Church,  New  Haven, 
Conn.,  where  he  commenced  his  pastoral  services  on  the  1st  of  January,  1815,  and 
was  installed  on  the  22d  of  February,  1816.  He  has  held  the  same  cure  from 
that  day  to  the  present,  being  now  seventy  years  of  age.  He  received  from  Yale 
College  the  honorary  degree  of  Master  o^  Arts  in  1817,  and  from  Washington 
(now  Trinity)  College,  Hartford,  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Divinity  in  1831. 

COFFIN,  ALEXANDER  B.,  (the  Boston  Bard),  worked  at  the  printing  business  in 
Boston.  He  died  in  182-. 

> 

GORDON,  A.  E.,  was  born  March  12th,  1826,  in  Philadelphia.  He  learned  the 
printing  business  in  the  office  of  the  State  Journal,  Wilmington,  Del.  On  the 
2d  of  June,  1847,  he  commenced  the  publication  of  the  "New  Jersey  Union,"  at 
New  Brunswick,  N.  J.,  of  which  he  is  still  the  editor. 

GREELEY,  HORACE,  was  born  at  Amherst,  N.  H.,  on  the  3d  of  February,  1311. 
When  Horace  was  in  his  tenth  year,  his  father  removed  to  West  Haven,  Vermont, 
and  engaged  in  clearing  land  for  a  farm.  "  Horace  assisted  at  the  farm  and  saw- 
mill, and  attended  a  day  school,  devoting  his  evenings  to  reading  and  study.  The 
common  school,  the  farm,  the  printing  office,  and  a  wisely  directed  system  of  self- 
culture,  are  the  means  through  which  Mr.  Greeley  has  acquired  knowledge  suffi- 
cient to  enable  him  to  exercise  a  powerful  influence  over  the  popular  mind  as  a 
political  writer  and  speaker." 

On  the  18th  of  April,  1826,  he  entered  the  office  of  the  "  Northern  Spectator," 
at  East  Poultney,  Vermont.  Here  he  remained  till  the  paper  was  discontinued,  in 
June,  1830.  His  relatives,  in  the  meantime,  had  removed  to  Wayne,  Erie  county, 
Pennsylvania,  and  on  leaving  East  Poultney,  he  followed  them.  There  he  re- 
mained about  one  year,  working  in  the  different  printing  offices  of  Lodi,  James- 
town, and  we  believe  Fredonia.  He  was  then  known  to  fame  only  as  a  flaxen-haired 
journeyman  printer,  not  particularly  promising  in  talent,  or  likely  ever  to  create 
much  of  a  sensation  in  the  world.  In  August,  1831,  he  left  Wayne  for  the  city 
of  New- York,  where  he  thought  he  might  procure  steady  work,  and  where  he  has 
ever  since  resided.  For  the  first  year  and  a  half  he  labored  as  a  journeyman.  In 


NOTICES       OF       CONTRIBUTORS.  XI 

1833,  he  commenced  the  publication  of  a  daily  newspaper  for  another  person,  but 
the  project  soon  afterward  failed,  and  in  March,  1834,  he  established  the  "  New- 
Yorker,"  a  weekly  paper  of  some  celebrity,  and  considerable  ability.  This  was 
an  undertaking  of  great  magnitude,  for  he  was  almost  entirely  without  friends  or 
acquaintances,  and  dependent  upon  chance  for  success.  This  paper  was  published 
for  about  seven  years  with  but  moderate  success,  although  its  circulation  at  one 
time  reached  about  nine  thousand  copies.  It  was  eventually  merged  in  the 
"Weekly  Tribune,"  in  September,  1841. 

With  the  last  mentioned  year  may  be  dated  a  new  era  in  Mr.  Greeley's  life. 
On  the  18th  of  April,  1841,  he  established  that  very  popular  and  influential  paper, 
the  "  New- York  Daily  Tribune  ;"  and  four  months  afterward  united  in  partnership 
with  Thomas  McElrath,  (formerly  an  Alderman,  and,  like  his  partner,  #  practical 
printer,  and  possessing  rare  business  talents,)  under  the  firm  of  Greeley  &  Mc- 
Elrath. Mr.  G.  is  the  responsible  editor,  and  Mr.  McElrath  manages  the  business 
department. 

In  the  fall  of  1848,  Mr.  G.  was  elected  a  Member  of  Congress  from  New- York 
city,  for  the  Short  Session  (to  fill  a  vacancy).  In  his  new  vocation  he  proved  him- 
self a  man  of  the  people.  He  was  "  the  advocate  of  common  and  chancery  law, 
and  land-law  reform,  of  the  rights  of  labor,  the  encouragement  of  national  in- 
dustry, and  the  enforcement  of  a  well-considered  scheme  of  economy  and  re- 
trenchment— of  immigration  to  fill  up  the  wilderness,  a  national  militia  rather  than 
hirelings,  and  a  navy  without  the  cat-o'-nine  tails."  He  also  endeavored  to  abolish 
the  present  corrupt  system  of  mileage,  under  the  color  of  which  members  some- 
times receive  $500  or  $1000  more  than  they  are  justly  entitled  to.  Mr.  G.  is  an 
ardent  champion  of  the  "  American  System,"  in  support  of  which  he  has  written 
several  pamphlets,  which  for  close  reasoning  and  sound  arguments,  have  not  been 
surpassed  by  any  writer  on  that  subject. 

"  Whether  he  speaks  in  public  or  writes  in  his  closet,  his  shrewdness  of  obser- 
vation, clearness  of  intellect,  remarkable  powers  of  condensation  and  arrangement, 
retentive  memory,  and  careful  attention  to  facts,  are  alike  conspicuous.  He  is  a 
first-rate  calculator,  very  methodical  in  statistical  matters,  fearless  and  bold  when 
he  feels  he  is  right,  a  real  reformer  of  real  abuses,  upright  in  his  intentions,  just  in 
his  dealings,  truly  benevolent,  warmly  attached  to  republican  institutions,  and 
earnest  and  anxious  for  '  the  good  time  coming,'  in  which  more  kindly  feelings, 
and  more  unalloyed  happiness  shall  smooth  the  path  of  life  to  every  race,  kindred, 
and  people." 


HALL,  Rev.  A.  G.,  was  born  in  Washington  Co.,  N.  Y.,  on  the  17th  April, 
1805.  At  the  age  of  nineteen,  he  persuaded  his  father  to  permit  him  to  enter  the 
office  of  the  "  Whitehall  Emporium,"  published  by  Erastus  Adams.  His  father 
was  much  opposed  to  the  step,  because  he  said  "  printers  were  always  poor."  Mr. 
Adams  died  after  Mr.  H.  had  been  in  the  office  about  a  year,  and  the  subject  of 
our  »otice  became  the  Editor  and  Proprietor  of  the  paper.  Not  succeeding  in  the 
experiment,  he  removed  to  Rochester  in  the  fall  of  1828,  penniless.  He  taught 
school  during  the  winter,  and  in  the  spring  entered  the  office  of  the  "  Rochester 
Observer."  For  several  years  he  had  charge  of  the  establishment,  laboring  during 
office  hours^  and  studying  the  languages  and  other  branches,  long  after  others  had 
retired  to  rest,  or  in  the  morning  before  they  arose.  In  this  laborious  manner  he 


Xll  NOTICES       OF       CONTRIBUTORS. 

prepared  himself  for  the  ministry,  and  in  June,  1835,  was  licensed  to  preach  by  the 
Presbytery  of  Rochester.  The  same  year  he  was  settled  in  Pennfield,  seven  miles 
from  Rochester,  where  he  remained  five  years,  when  he  received  an  invitation  to 
supply  the  third  Presbyterian  Church  in  Rochester,  of  which  Dr.  Parker,  of  Phila- 
delphia, was  many  years  pastor,  and  also  Dr.  Wm.  Mack,  now  President  of  Co- 
lumbia College,  Tenn.  Mr.  H.  was  a  member  of  this  Church  while  employed  in 
the  Observer  office.  It  was  therefore  a  matter  of  surprise  to  many,  that  a  man 
who  had  been  so  long  known  only  as  a  poor  journeyman  printer  should  be  called 
to  so  important  a  Church.  Mr.  H.  has  been  pastor  of  this  Church  for  nearly  ten 
years ;  during  this  period,  under  his  charge,  it  has  greatly  increased.  He  is  the 
oldest  pastor,  by  priority  of  settlement,  in  the  city  of  Rochester,  and  with  one  ex- 
ception, in  the  Presbytery. 

Mr.  Hf  deserves  much  credit  for  his  perseverance  and  industry  in  preparing  for 
the  ministry.  During  most  of  the  time  his  wife  was  an  invalid,  and  he  supported 
his  family  and  defrayed  all  his  expenses  from  the  product  of  his  own  labor  in  the 
printing  office,  not  receiving  aid  or  charity  from  any  source. 

HALL,  LYMAN  W.,  Editor  of  the  Ohio  Star,  Ravenna,  Ohio. 

HAZEWELL,  CHARLES  C.  is,  we  believe,  a  native  of  Rhode  Island,  and  learned 
his  profession  in  Providence  ;  from  thence  he  went  to  Boston  and  was  engaged  on 
the  "  Post,"  and  afterwards  in  an  editorial  capacity  on  the  "  Nantucket  Inquirer." 
While  editing  the  "  Concord  Freeman "  he  left  for  Ohio,  and  was  employed  at 
Columbus  on  the  "  Statesman."  About  two  years  ago  he  returned  to  Massa- 
chusetts, and  was  engaged  about  a  twelvemonth  on  the  "  Middlesex  Freeman." 
From  that  paper  he  went  to  Boston,  and  is  at  present  editor  of  the  "  Daily 
Times."  Mr.  Hazewell  is  a  very  accomplished  writer.  His  Address  before  the 
Franklin  Typographical  Society  of  Boston,  in  1848,  is  a  splendid  production, 
displaying  deep  thought  and  research. 

HOLDEN,  WM.  W.,  was  born  in  Orange  Co.,  N.  C.,  in  1819.  Of  poor  parentage, 
he  was  deprived  of  the  advantage  of  an  early  education,  and  he  declares  he  never 
passed  "  six  months  at  school  in  his  life."  To  reach  his  present  honorable  position 
in  society,  he  had  to  struggle  against  many  severe  adverse  circumstances,  and  to 
overcome  those  almost  insurmountable  difficulties  which  education  only  can  remove. 
He  served  his  apprenticeship  in  Raleigh,  and  never  possessed  any  other  advantages 
than  the  library  of  his  employer,  and  the  few  books  he  could  borrow  in  the  limited 
circle  of  his  friends.  Whilst  engaged  in  the  laborious  duties  of  the  printing  office, 
he  studied  law,  and  left  the  printing  business  to  assume  the  more  arduous  and 
responsible  duties  of  his  profession.  He  was  elected,  by  a  very  large  majority,  a 
member  of  the  House  of  Commons  of  his  native  State.  At  the  expiration  of  his 
term,  he  took  the  editorial  chair  of  the  "  North  Carolina  Standard,"  and  has  made 
it  one  of  the  most  prominent  papers  in  that  State.  The  selections  we  offer  were 
written  during  his  minority. 

JENKS,  Rev.  WILLIAM  ALFRED,  is  the  eldest  son  of  Hon.  Samugl  H.  Jeuks, 
formerly,  and  at  present,  of  Boston,  Mass.,  for  many  years  the  well-known  editor 
of  the  "  Nantucket  Inquirer."  He  was  born  in  Boston,  August  28th,  18 19;  and 
after  having  obtained  an  excellent  education  in  the  public  schools  of  Massachusetts, 
learned  the  trade  of  a  printer  in  the  office  of  the  above-mentioned  newspaper,  of 


NOTICES       OF       CONTRIBUTORS.  Xlll 

which,  on  attaining  his  majority,  he  became  the  editor.  After  having  pursued  the 
editorial  profession  for  about  one  year,  during  which  he  acquitted  himself  with 
singular  credit,  his  mind  became  religiously  impressed,  and  he  resolved  to  retire 
from  the  cares  and  duties  incident  to  his  station,  for  the  purpose  of  devoting  his 
future  life  "to  the  service  of  God,  in  the  bosom  of  His  Church.  Accordingly,  he 
at  once  commenced,  and  ardently  pursued  his  studies,  and  having  fully  qualified 
himself  by  the  acquisition  of  the  required  classical  proficiency,  he  entered  the  Gen- 
eral Theological  Seminary  in  1&43.  In  1846,  he  graduated  with  distinguished 
honor,  and  in  July  of  the  same  year,  received  holy  orders  in  Trinity  Church,  N.  Y., 
at  the  hands  of  the  Rt.  Rev.  Bishop  De  Lancey. 

He  was  immediately  called  to  the  Rectorship  of  St.  Peter's  Church,  Glen  Cove, 
L.  I.,  where  he  officiated  about  three  years.  He  resigned  this  parish  about  six 
months  since,  and  has  recently  received  and  accepted  an  invitation  to  the  charge 
of  St.  Luke's  Church,  Chelsea,  Mass. 

JEWETT,  JOHN  L.,  was  born  in  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  in  1809,  and  commenced  his 
apprenticeship  when  thirteen  years  of  age  in  his  native  town.  When  about  seven- 
teen, he  went  to  Boston,  and  completed  his  time  in  the  office  of  Wells  &  Silby, 
well-known  Printers  and  Publishers,  twenty-five  years  ago.  Shortly  after  becoming 
of  age,  Mr.  Jewett  was  induced  to  undertake  the  editorship  of  a  political  paper 
in  Oxford  Co.,  Maine  ;  but  not  finding  the  enterprise  profitable,  he  relinquished  it, 
and  returned  to  Boston.  In  the  year  1833,  Mr.  J.  removed  to  New-York,  where, 
with  the  exception  of  a  year  spent  in  South  Carolina,  he  has  since  remained.  For 
some  time  past  he  has  been  connected  with  the  Printing  Office  of  the  Methodist 
Book  Concern,  as  proof  reader,  in  which  branch  of  the  business  he  has,  perhaps,  no 
superior. 

Mr.  Jewett  is  not  only  a  thorough  English  scholar,  but,  by  close  application,  has 
mastered  the  Latin,  German,  Spanish,  and  French  languages,  and  acquired  con- 
siderable reputation  by  his  translations,  and  as  Editor  of  several  popular  French 
works.  He  is  also  a  very  impressive  speaker.  His  Oration  on  Franklin,  which  is 
printed  in  this  work,  was  not  more  highly  extolled  as  a  finished  literary  compo- 
sition, than  as  a  splendid  oratorical  effort. 

Mr.  Jewett  is  deservedly  esteemed  among  his  associates  for  his  soundness  of 
judgment,  his  varied  accomplishments,  and  his  noble  qualities  as  a  man.  Had  he 
not  been  compelled  to  devote  himself  so  closely  to  his  calling,  his  talents  would 
long  since  have  given  him  a  prominent  place  among  the  literati  of  our  country. 

JOHNSON,  H.  C.,  one  of  the  Publishers  of  the  "  Democratic  Advocate,"  in 
Williamsburgh,  L.  L,  was  born  in  Rome,  N.  Y.,  in  June,  1823.  He  assisted  in 
the  culture  of  a  farm,  in  summer,  and  attended  school  in  winter,  until  about  fourteen, 
when  he  was  apprenticed  to  the  printing  business.  Becoming  dissatisfied  with  his 
employer,  he  left  him  and  tried  his  fortunes  as  a  sailor  for  three  or  four  years.  On 
his  return  home,  he  returned  to  the  business,  and  by  close  application  and  perseve- 
rance was  soon  a  good  workman. 

JONES,  ISAAC  F.,  was  born  in  the  town  of  Covington,  now  East  Brewer,  Maine> 
July  4, 1803.  He  served  his  time  at  Bangor  in  that  State.  Purchasing  an  interest 
in  the  Long  Island  Farmer,  at  Jamacia,  L.  L,  in  July,  1832,  he  conducted  it  until 
1840,  when  he  sold  out  on  account  of  ill  health.  He  is  now  engaged  in  the  com- 
mission business  in  New- York. 
I 


XIV  NOTICES       OF       CONTRIBUTORS. 

MARSH,  WM.  B.,  was  a  native  of  Exeter,  N.  H,  aud  commenced  the  business 
of  life  as  a  printer,  in  Portsmouth.  He  worked  at  his  trade  a  year  or  two 
in  New- York.  He  started  the  "New  Bedford  Register,"  which  he  edited  for 
some  time.  In  1841  he  was  called  to  the  editorial  chair  of  the  "  Brooklyn  Eagle." 
He  was  esteemed  for  his  abilities  as  a  writer  and  for  the  many  virtues  which 
adorned  his  character.  He  died  in  Brooklyn  on  the  27th  of  February,  1846,  in 
the  thirty-third  year  of  his  age. 

M'LAUGHLIN,  EDWARD  A.,  was  born  in  the  parish  of  North  Stamford,  (of  which 
his  grandfather,  Rev.  Amzi  Lewis,  was  the  pastor,)  Fair-field  County,  Conn.,  on  the 
9th  of  January,  1798.  He  served  his  apprenticeship  in  Bridgeport,  Conn.  At  the 
age  of  twenty-one,  he  entered  the  U.  S.  army,  and  served  in  the  Missouri  Expe- 
dition. He  also  served  in  the  navy,  in  which  his  father,  the  late  Rev.  Edward 
M'Laughlin,  of  New- York,  was  a  Chaplain.  Relinquishing  the  public  service, 
Mr.  M'L.  re-entered  the  printing  office,  and  for  several  years  past,  has  been  em- 
ployed as  proof-reader.  Mr.  M'Laughlin  was  the  successful  competitor  for  the 
Prize  Address  spoken  at  the  opening  of  the  "  Frank lin»  Theatre,"  1835  ;  and  is  the 
author  of  a  poem,  didactive  and  descriptive,  in  four  cantos,  entitled  "  The  Lovers 
of  the  Deep,"/in  course  of  publication  by  J.  C.  Riker,  Esq.,  of  New- York  city. 

MOORE,  ELY,  served  his  apprenticeship  in  New  Jersey.  Soon  after  attaining 
his  majority,  he  removed  to  New-Yo/k  city.  In  1833  and  1834,  "  The  Trades' 
Union,"  and  other  societies  were  formed  by  the  mechanics  of  that  city,  for  the 
purposes  of  mutual  protection  and  improvement.  Mr.  M.  was  an  active  member 
of  several  of  these  societies,  and  delivered  addresses  before  them,  advancing  with 
considerable  eloquence  their  objects  and  claims  upon  the  workingmen  of  that  city. 
About  this  time,  the  "  Workingmen's  Party "  was  organized,  for  the  purpose  of 
electing  men  of  that  class,  as  members  of  the  State  and  National  Legislatures,  to 
advocate  their  rights  and  interests.  In  1834,  he  was  elected  Member  of  Congress, 
receiving  a  nomination  from  the  workingmen's  and  democratic  parties.  He  soon 
obtained  a  high  reputation  as  an  orator  and  debater,  and  created  considerable  sen- 
sation in  the  political  circles  by  his  bold  and  fearless  defence  of  the  Producing  and 
Working  classes  of  the  United  States,  in  reply  to  the  Hon.  Waddy  Thompson,  of 
S.  C.  He  held  the  office  of  Surveyor  of  the  Port  of  New- York  during  Mr.  Van 
Buren's  administration,  and  that  of  Marshal  for  the  Southern  District  of  New- 
York,  during  the  presidency  of  Mr.  Polk. 

MORRIS,  GEO.  P.,  was  born  in  Philadelphia  in  1802.  He  served  his  apprentice- 
ship with  Jonathan  Seymour  in  New- York  City.  When  fifteen  years  of  age, 
he  commenced  writing  poetry  for  the  "  New- York  Gazette,"  and  subsequently 
occasionally  filled  the  poet's  corner  of  the  "  American."  In  1823,  with  the  late 
Mr.  Woodworth,  he  established  the  "  New- York  Mirror,"  a  weekly  miscellany, 
which  for  nearly  nineteen  years  was  conducted  with  much  taste  and  ability.  In 
1827  his  olay  of  Brier  Cliff,  a  tale  of  the  American  Revolution,  was  brought  out 
and  performed  forty  nights  in  succession.  In  1842  he  wrote  an  opera,  the  Maid 
of  Saxony,  which  was  performed  fourteen  nights  with  great  success  at  the  Park 
Theatre.  In  1836  he  published  a  volume  of  amusing  prose  writings  under  the 
title  of  "  The  Little  Frenchman  and  his  Water  Lots."  He  has  also  published 
"  The  Deserted  Bride  and  other  Poems,"  and  "  Songs  and  Ballads."  In  1844,  in 


«  NOTICES       OF       CONTRIBUTORS.  XV 

conjunction  with  Mr.  Willis,  he  established  the  "  New  Mirror,"  a  weekly  paper, 
which,  in  consequence  of  the*cover  and  engravings  being  heavily  taxed,  was  dis- 
continued after  a  year  and  a  half.  In  January,  1846,  he  established  the  "  National 
Press,  a  Journal  for  Home."  In  November  of  that  year,  the  title  of  the  paper 
was  changed  to  the  "  Home  Journal,"  and  Mr.  Willis  became  associated  with  him 
in  its  publication. 

OTTERSON,  FRANKLIN  JOSEPH,  was  born  on  the  14th  of  January,  1819,  at 
Watertown,  N.  Y.  He  is  a  direct  descendant  of  one  of  the  celebrated  London- 
derry colony,  which  located  in  New  Hampshire  in  1720;  and,  further  back,' is 
descended  from  Norway,  by  way  of  Scotland  and  Ireland.  His  great-grandfather 
was  one  of  the  active  partisans  in  the  Siege  of  Derry,  and  on  the  capitulation  oi 
that  stronghold,  fled  to  this  country.  His  father  took  arms  against  the  British  in 
the  war  of  1812,  sharing  in  some  of  the  skirmishes  on  the  frontiers  of  this  State  ; 
he  died  in  1824,  leaving  a  widow  and  four  children  to  the  heritage  of  nothing  but 
a  humble  name.  After  a  long  apprenticeship  at  farming,  Franklin  one  day  de- 
cided upon  some  other  pursuit,  and  casually  happening  in  at  the  office  of  the 
"  Watertown  Register,"  struck  a  bargain  with  the  proprietor,  and  began  the  labo- 
rious work  of  a  printer.  Up  to  1839,  he  had  never  attempted  rhyme,  but  since 
that  time  he  has  written  a  great  number  of  fugitive  pieces,  which  have  met  the 
warm  commendation  of  the  Press.  Mr.  O.  has  been  for  the  last  seven  years  a 
resident  of  New- York  City,  variously  employed  in  the  Art  to  which  it  would  seem 
he  was  devoted,  when  he  received  the  name  of  its  greatest  professor.  For  }hree 
years  past  he  has  been  engaged  on  the  "  New- York  Daily  Tribune,"  and  at  pre- 
sent is  the  -City  Editor  of  that  paper,  having  supervision  of  Law  Intelligence, 
Religious  News,  and  the  well-known  "  City  Items,"  a  department  which  was 
originated  under  the  auspices  of  a  former  City  Editor,  and  which  has  been  imi- 
tated in  a  degree  by  almost  every  daily  paper  in  the  principal  cities  of  the  Union. 
Though  Mr.  O.  makes  no  pretensions  to  the  rank  of  a  Poet,  and  has  never  yet 
ventured  the  publication  of  a  volume,  his  verse  has  many  features  worthy  of  com- 
mendation, and  if  collected  would  bear  a  favorable  comparison  with  many  volumes 
which  have  already  received  the  honor  of  a  public  reception.  He  is  married,  and 
has  two  children — a  daughter  and  a  son,  both,  singularly  enough,  born  (two  years 
apart)  on  the  14th  of  June  ;  he  being  the  son  of  a  fourteenth  child,  born  on  the 
14th,  and  married  on  the  14th  day  of  the  month. 

POORE,  BENJ.  PERLEY,  was  'born  in  Newburyport,  Mass.,  in  November,  1820. 
Before  he  was  fourteen,  he  had  visited  nearly  all  the  principal  cities  of  Europe  with 
his  father.  Soon  after  his  return,  he  left  home  clandestinely.  See  page  307. 
The  next  information  we  have  of  him  is  contained  in  a  late  No.  of  the  "  Aurora 
Borealis,"  published  in  Boston.  The  writer  is  asked  "  Where  he  first  knew  Per- 
ley  1"  "  It  was,"  he  replies,  "  in  Worcester,  some  fourteen  years  since,  and  Perley 
was  a  ragged  printer's  apprentice,  in  the  office  of  Myrick  &  Bartlett.  A  lawyer 
of  my  acquaintance  used  to  engage  him  to  copy  papers,  (for  his  hand  is  clear  as 
print,)  and  I  soon  found  that  he  was  evidently  rather  a  mysterious  character.  He 
had  entered  the  town  on  foot  with  a  tin  trunk  of  essences,  and  applied  at  the  "  Repub- 
lican" office  for  a  situation,  alleging  that  "peddling  essences  didn't  pay!"  At 
first  he  had  the  drudgery,  but  was  soon  promoted,  and  by  copying  manuscripts, 
building  fires,  and  pumping  the  organ  al  the  Presbyterian  Church,  he  made  enough 
to  clothe  himself  in  good  shape. 


XVI  NOTICES       OF       CONTRIBUTORS.  • 

Who  or  what  he  was,  never  passed  his  lips ;  but  it  was  evident  that  he  had 
been  well  educated,  and  travelled  in  Europe,  with  *the  capitals  and  languages  of 
which  he  was  acquainted.  It  also  appeared  that  he  had  been  a  student  with  a 
civil  engineer,  in  order  to  go  to  West  Point,  and  the  boy  at  last  came  out  in  the 
"  Artillery,"  wearing  a  second-hand  coat  any  thing  but  becoming.  For  nearly 
two  years,  he  was  thus  a  steady  worker,  both  at  case  and  press,  and  then  he  dis- 
appeared as  suddenly  as  he  came.  His  employers  only  knew  that  he  had  written 
to  his  fathe'r,  telling  him  that  he  had  toiled  faithfully,  (though  heir  to  a  valuable 
inheritance,)  and  thus  proved  that  he  was  not,  as  his  temporary  guardian  had 
asserted,  "  lazy."  The  return  mail  brought  a  friend,  well  supplied  with  funds,  and 
the  runaway  boy  "  went  into  his  father's  house." 

At  the  age  of  seven  teen,  his  father  established  him  as  the  editor  and  proprietor  of 
a  paper.  He  was  an  attache  of  Mr.  Hilliard,  Minister  to  Belgium,  in  1840,  then 
only  in  the  twenty-first  year  of  hi£  age.  One  of  his  first  adventures  was  to  walk 
to  Venice,  zig-zagging  through  Switzerland,  Lombardy,  and  Tyrol.  Soon  after 
returning,  he  took  up  his  residence  in  Paris,  and  was  appointed  agent  of  the  Mas- 
sachusetts Historical  Society,  to  transcribe  the  documents  in  the  Marine  and  Colo- 
nial departments,  relating  to  the  history  of  that  State.  In  1845,  he  was  appointed  by 
the  Governor  of  Massachusetts,  (in  pursuance  of  a  resolve  of  the  Legislature,)  the 
Historical  Agent  of  that  State,  for  the  same  purpose.  He  returned  to  the  United 
States  in  1847,  and  deposited  in  the  Secretary's  Office  ten  large  folio  volumes  of 
documents,  transcribed  in  his  neat  style  of  penmanship,  and  two  large  volumes  of 
maps,  copied  by  himself. 

The  committee  to  whom  the  subject  was  referred  embodied  in  their  report  to 
the  Legislature  a  recommendation  that  his  salary  should  be  double  the  sum  appro- 
priated, as  a  testimonial  of.  his  talents,  perseverance,  and  industry.  Mr.  Poore 
also  travelled  extensively  in  Palestine,  Egypt,  Greece,  Asia  Minor,  and  Europe,  and 
brought  home  rich  stores  of  information,  besides  many  valuable  books,  costumes, 
&c.  His  collection  of  autographs  is  probably  one  of  the  richest  in  the  world,  number- 
ing over  eight  thousand  valuable  specimens  of  the  composition  and  chirography  of 
notable  individuals. 

Since  his  return  he  has  been  editor  of  that  popular  daily,  the  "  Boston  Bee," 
and  of  a  weekly  paper  called  "  Perley's  Pic-Nic  of  News,  Literature,  &c." 

A  life  of  Louis  Philippe,  published  last  year,  does  credit  to  his  talents.  He  is 
now  engaged  in  writing  a  life  of  Napoleon,  which  will  no  doubt  establish  his  repu- 
tation as  a  historian. 


RENNIE,  THOMAS  W.,  was  born  in  Maspeth,  Queens  Co.,  Long  Island,  where  he 
resided  until  about  his  twelfth  year,  when  he  came  to  the  city  of  New- York,  and 
began  his  apprenticeship  with  D.  &  G.  Bruce,  gentlemen  distinguished  for  their 
intelligence,  enterprise,  and  industry.  Desirous  of  learning  the  art  of  printing, 
and  these  gentlemen  being  engaged  exclusively  in  type-making  and  stereotyping, 
after  remaining  with  them  for  about  a  year  and  a  half,  Mr.  R.  left  them,  and  com- 
pleted his  apprenticeship  in  the  office  of  Jonathan  Seymour,  a  man  who  was  alike 
an  honor  to  the  profession  and  to  human  nature. 

Mr.  Rennie  has  a  high  reputation  as  an  accomplished  printer  and  proof-reader, 
and  for  several  years  past  has  been  foreman  for  R.  C.  Valentine,  the  well-known 
stereotyper  in  New- York. 


NOTICES       OF       CONTRIBUTORS.  XV11 

ROCKWELL,  JAMES  O.,  was  born  in  Lebanon,  Conn.  His  parents  were  in  humble 
circumstances,  and  consequently  his  education  was  extremely  limited.  While  a 
boy  he  worked  in  a  cotton  factory  in  New  Jersey  ;  but  in  his  fifteenth  year  he  was 
apprenticed  to  the  printing  business  in  Utica.  Here  his  mind  began  to  expand,  and 
he  pursued  his  studies  with  unwearied  diligence.  In  his  sixteenth  year  he  com- 
menced writing  for  the  press.  Arriving  at  his  majority,  he  worked  as  a  journey- 
man in  New-York  and  Boston,  and  having  acquired  considerable  reputation  as  a 
poet,  he  was  engaged  as  associate  editor  of  the  Statesman,  an  old  and  influential 
journal,  published  in  Boston,  where  he  continued  until  1829,  when  he  removed  to 
Providence  to  take  charge  of  the  Patriot.  He  died  in  1830,  at  the  age  of  twenty- 


SHILLABER,  B.  P.,  was  born  'in  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  1814  ;  was  apprenticed  in 
Dover,  N.  H.,  1829,  and  through  the  failure  of  the  office  in  which  he  was  situated, 
removed  to  Boston  in  1832,  where  he  has  resided  ever  since,  with  the  exception  of 
a  term  of  two  years  spent  in  South  America,  for  the  restoration  of  his  health, 
impaired  by  too  close  application  to  his  business.  During  the  last  eleven  years  he 
has  been  employed  in  the  office  of  the  Boston  Post,  and  like  a  regular  jour,  printer, 
enduring  and  doing  all  that  pertains  to  a  situation  on  a  daily  paper. 

SQUIRES,  PETER.  —  Mr.  S.  worked  for  several  years  in  the  city  of  New-  York. 
He  is  now  in  public  employment. 

TAYLOR,  BAYARD.  —  We  believe  Mr.  T.  was  born  in  Pennsylvania  in  1  825. 
He  commenced  his  apprenticeship  in  Philadelphia,  and  when  nineteen  years  of  age, 
purchasing  the  remainder  of  his,  time,  set  out  to  make  the  tour  of  Europe.  Sup- 
ported almost  entirely  by  the  productions  of  his  pen,  Mr.  Taylor  remained  abroad 
two  years,  and  visited  the  principal  places  of  interest  in  the  Old  World.  On  his 
return  in  1846,  he  published  his  "Views  A-Foot,"  an  exceedingly  popular  work, 
which  has  already  reached  its  tenth  edition.  From  the  Preface,  written  by  N.  P. 
Willis,  we  extract  the  following  interesting  particulars  : 

"  Mr.  Taylor's  poetical  productions  while  he  was  still  a  printer's  apprentice, 
made  a  strong  impression  on  the  writer's  mind,  and  he  gave  them  their  due  of 
praise  accordingly  in  the  newspaper  of  which  he  was  then  Editor.  Some  corres- 
pondence ensued,  and  other  fine  pieces  of  writing  strengthened  the  admiration 
thus  awakened,  and  when  the  young  poet-mechanic  came  to  the  city,  and  modestly 
announced  the  bold  determination  of  visiting  foreign  lands—  with  means,  if  they 
could  be  got,  but  with  reliance  on  manual  labor  if  they  could  not  —  the  writer, 
understanding  the  man,  and  seeing  how  capable  he  was  of  carrying  out  his  manly 
and  enthusiastic  scheme,  and  that  it  would  work  uncorruptingly  for  the  improve- 
ment of  his  mind  and  character,  counselled  him  to  go.  He  went  —  his  book  tells 
how  successfully  for  all  his  purposes.  He  has  returned  after  two  years'  absence, 
with  large  knowledge  of  the  world,  of  men,  and  of  manners,  with  a  pure,  invigo- 
rated and  healthy  mind,  having  passed  all  this  time  abroad,  and  seen  arid  accom- 
plished more  than  most  travellers,  at  the  cost  of  only  $500,  and  this  sum  earned 
on  the  road.  This,  in  the  writer's  opinion,  is  a  fine  instance  of  character  and  en- 
ergy. The  book,  which  records  the  difficulties  and  struggles  of  a  printer's  appren- 
tice achieving  this,  must  be  interesting  to  Americans.  The  pride  of  the  country 
is  in  its  self-made  men. 


NOTICES       O  CONTRIBUTORS. 

"  What  Mr.  Taylor  is,  or  what  he  is  yet  to  become,  cannot  well  be  touched 
upon  here,  but  that  it  will  yet  be  written,  and  on  a  bright  page,  is,  of  course,  his 
own  confident  hope  and  the  writer's  confident  expectation." 

Mr.  Taylor  is  already  regarded  as  one  of  our  most  gifted  and  graceful  writers. 
For  some  time  past  he  has  been  connected  with  the  "  New- York  Tribune,"  and  has 
recently  added  much  to  his  previous  reputation  by  his  "  Letters  from  California," 
which  are  universally  admitted  to  be  the  most  reliable,  graphic,  and  interesting  of 
any  published. 

Few  writers  of  Bayard  Taylor's  age  have  attained  so  high  a  rank  in  literature. 
A  bright  future  is  before  him. 

TOBEY,  W.  C.,  was  born  in  Tompkins  County,  N.  Y.,  in  the  year  1818.  In 
1831,  he  commenced  an  apprenticeship  in  the  printing  office  of  the  "  Ithaca 
Journal,"  and  until  1835,  followed  the  profession  of  compositor  in  Ithaca  and 
Owego.  In  the  fall  of  the  latter  year  he  went  to  Towanda,  in  Penn.,  where  he 
remained  until  the  fall  of  1837,  when,  his  master  failing  in  business,  he  stepped 
upon  a  lumber  raft  and  floated  down  the  Susquehanna  to  Harrisburg,  where  he 
afterwards  passed  nine  Sessions  of  the  Legislature  as  reporter,  and  was-  at  one 
time  the  editor  of  the  State  paper.  •  His  summers,  with  the  exception  of  three — 
two  as  a  law  student,  and  one  as  acting  State  Librarian — were  passed  in  Phila- 
delphia, where  he  was  connected  with  the  "  Spirit  of  the  Times,"  as  assistant. 
and  during  Mr.  Du  Solle's  visit  to  Europe,  as  principal  editor.  His  first  essay  in 
business  was  the  establishment  of  a  daily  paper  in  Pittsburg,  Pa.,  in  the  spring 
of  1845,  called  "  The  Morning  Ariel,"  which  failed  after  having  been  kept  up  five 
months. 

In  December,  1846,  being  then  an  assistant  editor  of  the  "  Philadelphia  North 
American,"  he  left  with  the  First  Regiment  of  Volunteers,  for  Mexico,  and  partici- 
pated in  the  battles  fought  by  Gen.  Scott,  from  Vera  Cruz  to  the  capture  of  the 
City  of  Mexico.  In  the  Aztec  capital  he  established  the  "  North  American " 
newspaper,  which  was  published  about  eight  months,  when  he  received  the  com- 
mission of  Second  Lieutenant  in  the  Fourth  Regiment  of  U.  S.  Infantry,  which  he 
held  until  the  expiration  of  the  war,  and  then  resigned,  and  returned  to  the  pen 
again. 

Mr.  T.'s  forte  lies  in  sketch-writing ;  he  was  formerly  one  of  the  most  popular 
correspondents  of  the  "  Spirit  of  the  Times  and  Turf  Register,"  and  his  letters 
to'  the  "  Philadelphia  North  American,"  from  Mexico,  ranked  with  those  of 
Freaner  and  Kendall.  He  is  an  attache  of  the  (New- York)  "  Sunday  Courier," 
the  columns  of  which  are  enriched  by  the  productions  of  his  pen.  We  have 
several  of  Mr.  T.'s  articles,  but  as  they  were  not  received  until  the  last  form  was 
going  to  press,  we  were  restricted  to  the  shortest,  in  which  (though  not  containing 
as  much  merit  as  those  on  hand)  the  reader  will  not  fail  to  observe  the  pleasing, 
unaffected  simplicity  that  runs  through  this  truthful  transcript  of  his  heart. 

V 

TODD,  CHAS.  S.,  was  born  in  Bath,  Me.,  in  1827.  He  served  his  apprenticeship 
in  the  "  Banner"  office,  Augusta,  Me.  At  present  he  is  the  editor  of  the  "  New- 
York  Pathfinder,"  the  colums  of  which  give  daily  evidence  of  his  ability  and  in- 
dustry. ThcUgh  quite  a  young  man,  Mr.  Todd  has  already  acquired  considerable 
reputation  as  a  pleasing  writer.  He  intended  to  furnish  an  original  article  for  this 
volume,  but  was  prevented  by  ill  health.  The  piece  we  have  selected,  though 
creditable,  is  scarcely  a  fair  specimen  of  Mr.  T.'s  style. 


NOTICES       OF       CONTRIBUTORS.  XIX 

TRTJMBULL,  JAMES  R.,  is  a  native  of  Williamsburg,  Mass. ;  a  descendant  of 
that  family  whose  name  was  so  conspicuous  during  the  early  history  of  our  Re- 
public. He  worked  on  a  farm  during  the  summer  and  attended  school  in  the 
*  winter,  until  his  sixteenth  year,  when  he  entered  the  office  of  the  "  Hampshire 
Gazette,"  Northampton,  Mass.  After  arriving  at  his  majority,  he  remained  in  the 
office  two  years,  one  as  foreman,  the  other  as  partner  in  the  job-office.  In  1849 
he  purchased  the  Hampshire  and  Franklin  Express,  published  at  Amherst,  Mass., 
of  which  he  is  now  the  editor.  The  second  article  in  this  book  is  from  his  pen,  and 
we  think  all  will  admit  it  would  do  credit  to  the  most  accomplished  writer. 

WHITMAN,  WALTER,  was  born  at  West  Hills,  in  the  town  of  Huntington,  L.  I. 
At  the  age  of  thirteen  he  was  placed  an  apprentice  to  the  printing  business  in  the 
office  of  the  "  Patriot,"  a  weekly  paper  then  published  in  Brooklyn.  The  establish- 
ment passing  into  other  hands,  he  found  himself,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  teaching 
school  on  Long  Island.  He  continued  in  this  occupation  three  or  four  years,  inter- 
mitted only  by  establishing  the  "  Long  Islander,"  at  Huntington,  L.  I.,  which  he 
sold  out  at  the  end  of  the  first  year.  While  teaching  a  school  near  Jamaica,  he 
wrote  a  sketch  entitled  "  Death  in  a  School  Room,"  for  the  purpose  of  making 
odious  the  use  of  the  rod  in  the  school.  It  was  published  originally  in  the  "  Demo- 
cratic Review,"  and  was  very  popular. 

Mr.  W.'s  literary  career  commenced  with  sketches  of  that  character,  in  the 
"  Democratic  Review,"  "  American  Review,"  and  other  periodicals.  He  soon, 
however,  became  connected  with  the  press,  and  edited  the  "  Aurora,"  "  Sunday 
Times,"  "  Brooklyn  Eagle,"  and  "  New  Orleans  Crescent."  Mr.  W.  is  an  ardent 
politician  of  the  radical  democratic  school,  and  lately  established  the  "  Daily 
Freeman,"  in  Brooklyn,  to  promulgate  his  favorite  "  Free  Soil "  and  other  refor- 
matory doctrines. 

WILLIS,  N.  PARKER,  was  born  in  Portland,  Me.,  on  the  20th  of  January,  1807. 
For  his  claims  to  fraternity  with  the  craft,  see  page  306,  Appendix.  At  Yale 
College,  which  he  entered  in  the  seventeenth  year  of  his  age,  he  distinguished 
himself  by  a  series  of  graceful  poems  on  several  subjects,  which  made  his 
name  familiar  ,with  the  public,  and  immediately  after  he  graduated,  in  1827, 
was  engaged  by  Mr.  S.  G.  Goodrich  to  edit  "The  Legendary  and  Token." 
In  1828,  he^established  "  The  American  Monthly  Magazine,"  which  he  conducted 
two  years  and  a  half,  at  the  end  of  which  time  it  was  merged  in  «  The  New- York 
Mirror,"  of  which  Mr.  W.  became  one  of  the  editors ;  and  he  soon  after  sailed 
for  Europe.  On  his  arrival  in  France  he  was  attached  to  the  American  Legation, 
by  Mr.  Rives,  then  our  Minister  at  the  Court  of  Versailles,  and  with  a  diplomatic 
passport,  he  travelled  in  that  country,  Italy,  Greece,  Asia  Minor,  Turkey,  and 
England,  where  he  remained  two  years,  and  was  married.  The  letters  which  he 
wrote  while  abroad,  under  the  title  of  "  Pencillings  by  the  Way,"  were  first  pub- 
lished in  the  "  New-York  Mirror,"  and  have  since  been  collected  into  volumes,  in 
which  shape  they  have  passed  through  numerous  editions.  In  1835,  he  published 
"  Inklings  of  Adventure,"  a  series  of  sketches  and  tales,  which  appeared  originally 
in  a  London  Magazine,  over  the  signature  of  Philip  Slingsby.  In  1837,  he  re- 
turned to  the  United  States,  and  retired  to  a  pleasant  seat  on  the  Susquehanna, 
named  Glen  Mary  in  compliment  to  his  wife,  where  he  resided  two  years.  Early 


XX  NOTICES       OF       CONTRIBUTORS. 

in  1839,  he  became  one  of  the  editors  of  "  The  Corsair,"  a  literary  gazette  in 
New- York,  and  in  the  autumn  of  that  year  he  went  again  to  London,  where,  in 
the  following  winter,  he  published  "  Loiterings  of  Travel,"  in  three  volumes,  and 
"  Two  Ways  of  Dying  for  a  Husband,"  comprising  the  plays  of  Bianca  Visconti, 
and  Tortesa  the  Usurer.  In  1840,  an  illustrated  edition  of  his  Poems,  and  his 
"Letters  from  under  a  Bridge,"  were  published.  In  1843,  with  Mr.  Morris, 
he  revived  the  "  New- York  Mirror " — which  had  been  discontinued — first  as  a 
weekly,  and  afterwards  as  a  daily  gazette,  but  withdrew  from  it  on  the  death 
of  his  wife,  in  1844,  and  made  another  visit  to  England,  where  he  published 
"  Dashes  at  Life  with  a  Free  Pencil,"  consisting  of  stories  and  sketches  illustrative 
of  contemporary  European  and  American  society.  In  October,  1846,  he  married 
a  daughter  of  the  Hon.  Joseph  Grinnell,  of  Mass.,  and  in  the  following  month 
settled  in  New-York,  where  he  is  once  more  associated  with  Mr.  Morris,  as  an 
editor,  in  conducting  "  The  Home  Journal,"  a  popular  weekly,  devoted  to  literature 
and  the  arts. 

WOODWORTH,  SAMUEL,  was  a  native  of  Scituate,  Mass.  After  learning  the  art 
of  printing,  he  remoyed  to  New- York,  where  for  many  years  he  worked  as  a 
journeyman.  During  the  latter  part  of  his  life  he  edited  several  popular  magazines 
and  literary  papers.  In  1823,  associated  with  Mr.  G.  P.  Morris,  he  established 
the  "  N.  Y.  Mirror,"  long  the  most  popular  journal  x>f  literature  and  art  in  this 
country.  His  principal  writings  were  of  the  lyrical  school  of  poetry,  among 
which  we  may  particularly  instance  his  beautiful  ballad  of  "  The  Old  Oaken 
Bucket,"  which,  for  simple,  yet  natural  imagery,  and  beauty  of  expression,  is 
unsurpassed  by  any  American  poet,  and  equal  to  some  of  the  finest  lyrics  of  Burns, 
Tannahill,  or  Motherwell.  We  would  have  inserted  this  little  gem  of  poetry, 
were  we  not  certain  the  words  are  in  every  one's  memory.  He  was  also  the 
author  of  several  operas  and  comedies,  and  many  powerful  articles  in  defence  of 
the  rights  of  his  country,  in  a  paper  edited  and  published  by  himself,  during  the 
last  war.  He  was  a  man  of  strict  moral  principles,  a  true  Christian,  kind  husband, 
and  an  affectionate  father.  He  died  at  his  residence  in  New- York,  on  Friday, 
9th  December,  1842,  in  the  fifty-seventh  year  of  his  age. 


YOICES  FROM  THE  PRESS. 


THE  WATER-STREAM  AND  THE  LIFE-STREAM. 


BY   FKANKLIN   J.    OTTEESON. 


A  CLOUD  around  a  mountain's  crest 

One  lovely  evening  rolled, 
And  glorified  its  rocky  rest 

With  garniture  of  gold ; 
But  when  the  sun  below  the  wave 

His  flashing  beams  withdrew, 
Its  vesture  paled  from  gay  to  grave — 

The  Cloud  expired  in  dew : 

And  thus  the  Rill  was  born. 

ii. 

A  man  with  anxious  brow,  o'erhung 

The  couch  of  mortal  pain, 
Where  Life  and  Death  the  balance  swung, 

Nor  either  rule  could  gain ; 
But  Nature,  Youth  and  ardent  Love 

Asserted  their  control — 
One  less  adored  in  bliss  above,      , 

For  Earth  had  caught  a  Soul : 

And  thus  the  Babe  was  born. 


14  T-HE 


in. 


The  morn  was  clear,  and  fair  the  sun 

Looked  on  the  mountain's  head, 
But  soon  the  Clouds  in  raiment  dun 

The  azure  sky  o'erspread ; 
The  sparkling  rain  came  down  amain, 

The  dry  earth  drank  its  fill- 
But  what  it  drank  it  jjave  again 

To  feed  the  little  Rill  f 

And  thus  the  Brook  was  made. 


rv. 


The  Soul  within  its  mortal  shell 

lay, 
And  s  Jit  happily  to  dwell 

Within  its  house  of  «. 
It  sparkled  through  tlie  wondering  eyes, 

It  lisped  upon  t! 

It  filled  each  sense  with  glad  surprise — 
The  bliss  of  being  young ! 

And  thus  the  Boy  was  made. 


v. 


Now  Summer  came,  and  light  and  shade. 

The  mountain-top  endured ; 
The  frequent  showers  more  lovely  made 

The  sunbeams  they  obscured ; 
And  even-  rain-stream's  silver  thread 

A  gladsome  journey  took, 
And  prattled  music  as  it  sped 

To  join  the  swelling  Brook : 

And  thus  the  River  rose. 


VI. 

Life  looked  before  the  boyish  Soul, 
As  something  always  fair ; 

But  Time,  in  his  resistless  roll, 
Brought  many  a  thorn  of  care ; 


15 


And  where  the  Soul  so  sweetly  sung 

A  little  hour  ago, 
By  turns  it  soothed — by  turns  it  stung, 

With  draughts  of  bliss  or  woe : 
And  thus  the  Man  arose. 


vn. 

Adown  the  mountain  madly  poured 

The  River  to  the  plain, 
Among  the  ragged  rocks  it  roared 

And  thundered  out  its  pain, 
Till  broken,  foaming  from  the  hill, 

And  thick  with  drift  and  soil, 
Upon  the  vale  it  gladly  fell, 

And  rested  from  its  toil : 

And  so  the  River  sped. 


vm. 

The  Soul  was  weary,  now,  of  life, 

For  foes  had  hedged  it  round, 
And  in  the  stormy  sky  of  strife 

Hope's  star  alone  was  found ; 
But  memories  of  a  higher  hone 

Its  courage  did  increase. — 
Through  Sin's  foul  mire  and  Passkn'B 

It  fought  its  way  to  peace : 

And  thus  the  Man  bore  on. 


Now  afeat  as  the  fight  of  days 

The  peaceful  River  rolled, 
En:  still  the  stain  of  former  frays 

Its  battle-ventures  told; 
Trees,  rent  and  torn,  vpc 

Aud  earth  ~:rhin  its  ware. 

ta  wpm  :_r  - .-  -  -    nl 
'-:  ........   .-   L  _>  _ 


16  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK 


x. 


The  toil  of  Life,  and  not  its  length, 

The  struggling  Soul  had  bowed, 
And  from  the  strife  it  bore  its  strength 

Less  confident  and  proud ; 
Stern  lessons  from  the  fray  it  brought — 

For,  as  in  fields  of  Mars, 
The  conflict  on  the  field  of  Thought 

Is  memorized  by  scars : 

Thus  Man  his  age  begun. 


But  Space  and  Time  upon  the  stream 

Brought  slow  but  certain  change, 
And  now,  as  silent  as  a  dream, 

It  moved  its  shortening  range ; 
Its  wave,  as  when  a  little  Rill, 

Was  pure  as  nectar  now, 
And  met  the  s-^a  as  soft  and  still 

As  dew  the  mountain's  brow : 

And  thus  the  River  passed. 


XII. 

Now  o'er  the  tenement  of  Soul 

Time's  subtle  palsy  fell, 
And  scarcely  could  the  will  control 

The  frame  it  swayed  so  well ; 
Till,  once,  the  upward-gazing  eyes 

With  wondrous  brilliance  burned — 
The  Soul  went  back  to  Paradise, 

And  dust  to  dust  returned : 

And  thus  the  Mortal  passed. 

NEW-YORK,  July  21,  1849. 


THE     PRINTER/ SHOOK.  17 


THE  THEORY  OF  MIND. 


BY   JAMES   R.    TRUMBULL< 


'*  THE  proper  study  of  mankind  Is  man,'*  and  the  m'o'st  valu- 
able of  all  knowledge  is  a  suitable  acquaintance  with  ourselves. 
From  whatever  point  of  view  we  contemplate  creation's  most 
finished  work  —  man,  — we  find  a  theme  full  of  grandeur, 
beauty,  and  sublimity.  Whether  we  scrutinize  the  mechanism 
of  the  human  frame,  the  beautiful  symmetry,  the  wonderful 
accuracy,  and  the  perfect  harmony  existing  afnorig  its  different 
parts,  or  examine  that  subtle  essence  which  controls  and 
directs  the  whole  structure*  we  are  alike  impressed  with  the 
admirable  skill  and  infinite  power  of  the  Alrhighty  Architect. 
If  we  separate  the  matchless  fabric,  and  inspect  it  piece  by 
piece,  we  find  that  the  Same  Divine  hand  which  formed  and 
gave  office  to  the  sfinrtplest  muscle,  shaped  and  perfected  the 
intricate  and  delicate  mechanism  of  the  eye.  He  that  com- 
missione'd  the  heart  to  send  its  red  tribute  throughout  the 
system,  and  gave  the  dimple  to  the  rosy  cheek,  created  and 
placed  ^ver  the  whole  that  monarch  whose  will  is  law— -tho 
MIND.  We  know  not  which  to  admire  most,  the  beautiful 
machine,  or  the  operation  of  that  mighty  power,  which  guides* 
its  every  part.  Each  presents  a  wide  field  for  investigation  J 
both  afford  food  for  reflection,  and  the  study  of  either  can  but 
make  us  wiser,  and  ought  to  make  us  better. 

Gladly  in  pursuing  our  subject,  would  we  take  up  both,  and 
in  connection  show  how  one  acts  in  and  through  the  6thcr ; 
show  how  the  glorious  Maker,  while  he  gave  fo  each  Separate 
functions,  attuned  the  whole  to  sweetest  harmony  mid  adapt- 
ed both  to  their  proper  sphere  of  combined  agency.  But  our 
purpose  confines  u*s  to  a  single  element  of  our  nature.  Let 


18  TH  E     PKI  NTEIl's     BOOK. 

us  then  leave  the  mechanical,  the  animal  — the  body  ;  and  ex- 
amine the  ethereal,  the  intellectual! — the  Mind. 

MIND  —  that  living  spark  from  the  inner  shrine  of  God's 
own  temple,  presents  a  subject  vast,  profound,  and  unfathom- 
able. Men  of  mightiest  intellect  have  taxed  all  their  energies 
to  compass  the  solution  of  this  abstruse  problem.  *  They  have 
simplified  its  operations,  and  accounted  for  its  phenomena,  yet 
it  is  still  shrouded  in  mystery.  They  have  classified  its  ele- 
ments, and  named  its  faculties,  but  failed  to  grasp  its  sub- 
stance. They  have  given  a  table  of  contents,  but  are  unable 
to  produce  the  volume.  How  then  shall  we  define  it  ? 

It  is  the  only  link  that  binds  us  to  the  spirit- world  —  the 
bright  essence  of  divinity.  It  is  the  power,  which,  while  it 
shows  that  we  are  below  the  superior  intelligences  of  the 
upper  world,  tells  'how  we  differ,  and  what  we  may  aspire  to 
be.  Mind,  in  the  sense  we  propose  to  treat  it,  is  the  intel- 
lectual, the  intelligent  power  in  man ;  that  which  conceives* 
reasons,  and  judges;  the  realm  of  thought;  the  ideal  empire 
of  the  universe. 

Our  knowledge  of  this  grand  element  is  limited.  That  it 
holds  boundless  sway  over  mankind,  none  will  deny  ;  yet  how 
it  operates  is  still  matter  of  uncertainty.  Analogy,  through 
the  instrumentality  of  cause  and  effect,  teaches  that  Mind 
acts  for  some  specific  purpose  ;  that  drawing  its  nourishment 
from  abroad,  it  works  upon  outward  circumstances.  There- 
fore, from  its  manifestations  only,  do  we  arrive  at  just  con- 
clusions concerning  its  formation. 

•  Philosophy  separates  Mind  into  three  grand  departments,  — 
the  intellect,  the  sensibilities,  and  tho  will ;  of  these  it  will 
come  within  our  province  to  notice  only  the  first — the  INTEL- 
LECT. However  intimately  connected  with  this,  the  other  di- 
visions may  be,  it  is  Intellect  which  forms  the  foundation  for 
all  the  rest.  Knowledge  is  the  peculiar  aliment  of  the  Mind. 
It  is  to  Mind  what  fuel  is  to  the  fire.  Remove  knowledge, 
and  the  Mind  loses  its  vitality,  or  lies  smouldering  in  the 
ashes  of  overweening  ignorance.  It  is  the  office  of  the  intel- 
lect or  understanding  to  furnish  knowledge.  The  affections, 
that  portion  assigned  the  sensibilities,  cannot  rightly  exert 
their  power  without  the  aid  of  knowledge ;  neither  can  the 
will,  although  holding  the  executive  position,  exercise  its 


THE   PRINTER'S   BOOK.     \  19 

functions  in  a  proper  direction,  without  the  intellect  to  enlighten 
and  decide  upon  the  true  course  of  action. 

In  all  movement  of  the  Mind  intellect  takes  precedence. 
All-powerful  as  may  be  the  efforts  of  other  divisions  in  their 
respective  departments,  it  is  obvious  that  whatever  the  Mind 
takes  cognizance  of,  comes  to  its  supervision  through  know- 
ledge. Metaphysicians  have  divided  intellect,  assigning  to 
each  portion,  distinct  functions.  To  these  different  parts  they 
have  given  names  corresponding  to  the  result  of  their  action. 
Their  minute  distinctions  it  will  not  be  within  the  scope  of  an 
article,  like  the  present,  to  dwell  upon.  Those  which  the  in- 
tellect draws  most  largely  upon  are  REASON  and  IMAGINATION. 
Other  powers  may  influence  the  two  just  named  ;  but  if  know- 
ledge be  the  foundation  of  intellectual  development,  then  the 
means  through  which  this  information  is  obtained,  must  rank 
as  most  important  among  the  Mind's  component  parts,  and 
to  these  alone  will  we  confine  our  attention. 

The  two  last-named  properties  of  intellect,  while  we  treat 
of  them  as  distinct  in  result,  are  combined  in  action.  One 
cannot  operate  independent  of  the  other.  Neither  constitutes 
a  separate  faculty,  although  some  Minds  evince  an  almost 
total  absence  of  one  or  the  other  of  them. 

REASON  —  that  power  which  enables  us  to  deduce  Infer- 
ences from  facts  or  propositions  —  holds  the  most  prominent 
position  in  the  intellectual  organization.  It  not  only  reveali 
to  us  the  workings  of  the  inner  Mind,  however  complicated 
and  remote,  but  it  brings  out  and  acquaints  us  with  the  grand 
principles  and  hidden  truths  of  nature.  Through  it  we  de- 
tect truth  from  falsehood,  and  determine  good  from  evil.  Rea- 
son is  the  controlling  power  of  the  intellectual  Mind.  A  Mind 
uninfluenced  by  reason,  resembles  a  ship  without  a  pilot, 
wafted  at  the  mercy  of  wind  and  tide,  destined  to  no  port  and 
never  continuing  long  in  one  direction.  It  acts  in  relation  to 
other  parts  of  the  Mind,  as  does  the  balance-wheel  with  refer- 
ence to  the  machinery  of  the  steam-engine ;  steadying  and 
governing  the  motion  of  each,  giving  to  all  their  proper  limits, 
and  allowing  none  U>  overstep  its  bounds,  or  encroach  upon 
the  sphere  of  another.  Yet  reason,  while  it  guides  and  directs, 
and  separates  and  classifies,  also  originates  and  suggests.  As 
monitor  of  the  intellect  it  notes  its  most  minute  action.  From 


20  THE   PRINTER'S   BOOK. 

whatever  inducements  the  Mind  exerts  itself,  reason  weighs 
the  motive  and  decides    the  action.     For  says  the  Poet, 
*f  Self-love,  the  spring  of  action,  acts  the  soul, 
Reason's  comparing  balance  rules  the  whole  -=r 
That  sees  immediate  good  by  present  sense, 
Reason  the  future  and  the  consequence." 

Next  in  order,  and  closely  allied  to  the  reasoning,  are  the 
imaginative  powers  of  the  intellect.  Imagination,  like  reason, 
frames  new  combinations  of  thought  from  ideas  already  in  our 
possession.  Although  similar  in  action  and  combined  in  opera- 
tion, yet  they  differ  in  their  objects  and  results.  Reason  deals 
with  facts;  imagination  with  conceptions.  One  ascertains 
what  is  true ;  the  other  what  is  possible.  Reason  inquires 
after  things  which  already  exist ;  imagination  creates  that 
which  has  no  being. 

IMAGINATION  is  the  will  working  on  the  materials  of  the 
rnemory.  It  is  that  power  which  combines  parts  of  distinct 
conceptions,  so  as  to  form  new  ones  different  in  kind  from 
those  already  in  the  Mind.  Imagination  is  the  enlivener  of 
the  intellect.  A  Mind  governed  by  reason  alone,  is  sombre 
and  passionless,  like  a  beautiful  landscape  on  a  cloudy  day; 
but  let  the  bright  sun  of  imagination  burst  forth,  and  it  at 
once  assumes  a  cheerful  aspect ;  the  distant  mountains  seem 
to  dance  in  its  golden  light,  and  reason,  brightened  by  its 
genial  ray,  moves  wjth  a  lighter  step  towards  its  proper  end. 
Imagination  is  the  blossoming  of  Mind,  of  which  poetry  is 
the  fruit.  A  Mind  without  imagination,  is  like  a  vessel  with- 
out sails  —  the  whole  mechanism  is  there,  all  the  requisites 
except  that  upon  which  the  moving  power  must  act.  It 
is  the  aim  of  the  imagination  to  please  ;  it  is  the  ornamen- 
tal element  of  the  intellect. 

Mind  is  developed  only  through  the  kingdom  of  letters.  Lan- 
guage is  the  result  of  thought,  and  thought  is  an  action  of 
tfie  Mind.  Letters  sprang  from  the  use  of  language,  and 
over  the  written  characters  employed  to  express  that  language, 
Mind  wields  the  sceptre.  Its  modes  of  expression  are  various 
and  multiform,  yet  they  may  be  condensed  into  two  classes  — 
the  useful  and  the  ornamental ;  or  rather,  prose  and  poetry. 
Over  the  former,  reason  is  the  acknowledged  monarch,  while 
in  the  latter,  imagination  holds  imperial  sway.  They  are 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  21 

by  no  means  confined  exclusively  to  these  separate  depart- 
ments of  literature.  Imagination  may  predominate  in  prose, 
or  reason  may  become  an  element  of  poetry ;  yet  the  re- 
sult will  be  to  render  the  one  poetical,  or  the  other  prosaic. 
Reason  strides  with  a  solemn  and  majestic  tread,  while 
imagination  skips  along,  dancing  to  the  music  of  its  own 
conceptions.  Reason  descends  to  the  foundation  depths  of 
all  knowledge,  imagination  soars  away  to  regions  above  all 
mortal  vision.  Reason,  alone,  is  characterised  by  a  chastened 
sobriety,  while  imagination  is  light,  fantastic,  ethereal.  Two 
opposite  elements  in  the  Mind;  one  needs  the  balancing 
power  of  the  other  to  sustain  the  equipoise.  Reason,  waft- 
ed on  the  wings  of  imagination,  bears  us  smoothly  over 
the  rough  road  of  science,  and  imagination,  curbed  by  the 
strong  hand  of  reason,  careers  gently  with  us  through  the 
higher  regions  of  literature,  never  losing  sight  of  humanity, 
although,  at  times,  giving  us  but  a  bird's-eye  view  of  it. 

Reason,  in  the  world  of  letters,  becomes  argument,  and 
it  is  in  this  department  that  some  of  earth's  greatest  Minds 
have  gained  their  immortality.  The  deep  research,  pro- 
found calculation,  the  subtle  balancing  of  cause  and  effect, 
and  the  clear,  distinct,  and  logical  conclusion,  are  the 
effect  of  reason,  and  of  reason  alone.  Reason  is  the 
ground-work  of  philosophy  and  metaphysics.  It  needs  no 
imagination  to  prove  the  effects  of  certain  causes,  or  the 
existence  of  certain  laws ;  it  belongs  to  reason  to  array 
the  evidence  and  deduce  the  conclusion.  Reason  predom- 
inates in  the  deep-thinking  Mind,  while  imagination,  more 
easily  led  captive,  is  found  with  greater  universality  in 
all  departments  of  life.  Although  we  have  classed  reason 
and  imagination  as  separate  and  distinct,  yet  one,  as  it 
were,  grows  out  of  the  other.  Imagination  begins  where 
reason  ends.  Upon  the  firm  and  enduring  foundation  of 
reason,  imagination  has  reared  many  an  airy  fabric,  and 
built  many  a  splendid  temple,  which,  otherwise,  must  have 
been  swept  away  by  the  flood  of  ages,  or  fallen  with  the 
accumulated  weight  of  centuries ! 

Science  owes  as  much  if  not  more  to  reason,  than  any 
other  branch  of  human  knowledge.  Reason  is  the  hand- 
maid of  science,  and  the  bulwark  of  literature.  Unaided  by 


22 

reason,  the  scientific  world  would  even  now  have  been  grop- 
ing in  the  midnight  darkness  of  the  middle  ages.  Progress 
is  the  tendency  of  human  nature.  There  can  be  no  stagna- 
tion in  the  world  of  Mind.  Although  for  ages  it  may  seem- 
ingly sleep,  yet  it  is  preparing  for  a  mighty  movement,  and 
will  finally  arouse  itself  with  a  stride  at  which  nations  will 
gaze  in  astonishment. 

Reason,  in  its  legitimate  course  of  action,  led  to  the  dis- 
covery of  this  vast  continent.  From  data  already  in  his 
possession,  Columbus  demonstrated  the  problem  of  the  ex- 
istence of  another  world.  Led  by  the  guiding  star  of  hope, 
and  beckoned  onward  by  the  plastic  hand  of  imagination, 
he  followed  the  course  marked  out  by  reason,  and  added 
that  world  for  which  the  hero-warrior  sighed  in  vain. 

In  the  argumentative  properties  of  Mind,  no  man  was 
more  gifted  than  JONATHAN  EDWARDS.  The  most  subtle 
metaphysician  of  modem  times,  he  remains  unsurpassed,  if 
not  unequalled,  as  an  argumentative  writer.  His  Mind  was 
discriminating  while  it  was  ardent  and  searching.  He  de- 
scended to  the  lowest  depths  of  whatever  subject  he  in- 
vestigated, brought  up  its  hidden  capabilities,  and  expand- 
ing them  into  a  broad  and  firm  foundation,  built  thereon 
his  noble  structure. 

Deep  research  and  toilsome  reasoning  overthrew  that  syg- 
tem  of  error  which  had  bound  the  world  for  so  many  cen- 
turies. The  imagination  of  NEWTON  discerned,  in  the  falling 
apple,  that  great  principle,  which  reason  applied  as  the  gov- 
erning power  of  a  universe.  Reason  gave  to  the  world  that 
glorious  system  of  Astronomy,  which  COPERNICUS  hinted  at, 
for  which  GALILEO  suffered,  and  which  NEWTON  brought  to 
perfection.  Whatever  meed  of  praise  is  worthy  to  be  be- 
stowed upon  the  imagination  which  conceived  the  bold  idea, 
so  utterly  opposed  to  the  received  sentiments  of  a  world  ;  it  was 
reason,  that  accomplished  its  final  consummation.  Reason  in 
the  department  of  mathematical  calculation,  measures  the 
distances  of  the  stars  and  tells  the  diameters  of  other  worlds. 

While  Reason  ranks  highest  in  the  intellectual,  it  also 
manifests  its  superiority  in  the  practical  world.  It  taught  how 
to  chain  that  powerful  agent — steam  —  and  send  it  careering 
over  earth,  man's  humblest  slave.  Reason  shackled  the  forked 


THE     P  11 


DOOK.  23 


lightning,  and  bid  it  circle  the  globe  at  a  single  bound. 
FRANKLIN,  the  philosopher,  by  the  aid  of  reason,  bottled  the 
lightning,  and  gave  practical  proof  of  the  identity  of  lightning 
and  electricity. 

Imagination — the  creative  faculty  of  Mind  —  deals  in  the 
unreal,  the  world  of  fancy.  It  is  the  pleasing  and  ornamental, 
rather  than  the  instructive  element  of  intellect.  While  imagi- 
nation is  the  creative  faculty  in  literary  pursuits,  so  also  is  it 
the  reproducing  agent  in  practical  life.  Scenes  long  since 
faded  from  the  memory,  through  its  influence  are  brought  be- 
fore the  Mind,  and  images  of  things  heaYd  of  throng  into  view. 
We  once  more  enact  some  long-forgotten  scene  of  pleasure 
and  again  find  ourselves  transported  to  the  realities  of  other 
days.  We  follow  the  traveller  in  his  wanderings,  and  share 
in  imagination  his  toils,  his  terrors,  and  his  dangers.  We  read 
the  poet's  description  of  other  lands,  we  bask  in  the  beams  of 
bis  oriental  sun,  or  sink  to  repose  lulled  by  the  carol  of  his 
feathered  songsters. 

In  literature,  imagination  revels  in  the  ideal  world,  sending 
forth  thoughts  that  spring  up  from  the  fountain-head 'of  fancy. 
It  is  in  the  region  of  fiction  that  imagination  chiefly  prevails. 
Here  it  finds  ample  scope  for  its  wildest  flights,  and  free  and 
untrammelled,  it  scatters  the.  sparkling  diamonds  from  its  own 
incomparable  treasure-house.  But  imagination  is  not  confined 
to  fictitious  writing.  While  it  beautifies  and  adorns  the  mass- 
ive sentences  and  colossal  arguments  of  the  philosopher,  it  also 
adds  freshness  and  elasticity  to  the  smoothly-gliding  numbers 
of  the  poet's  song.  Nowhere  does  imagination  appear  more 
vividly  than  in  poetry.  It  is  the  soul  of  the  poetic  genius.  It 
is  the  bright  warder  that  guards  the  land  of  poesy,  and  with- 
out it  none  may  wander  in  its  Elysian  Fields,  or  cull  the 
sweets  of  its  blooming  gardens.  Poetry  is  the  i?naginative 
art.  And  it  is  here  that  imagination  holds  unlimited  sway. 

In  the  language  of  nature's  truest  poet : 

"  As  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name." 

Poetry  is  word-painting  !    "  The  art  of  employing  words 


in  such  a  manner  as  to  produce  an  illusion  on  the  imagination; 
the  art  of  doing,  by  means  of  words,  what  the  painter  does  by 
means  of  colors."  The  grand  filling  up  of  every  master-poet's 
work  is  drawn  from  the  imagination.  Founded  in  truth,  the 
poet's  airy  fabric,  erected  by  fancy,  expands  till  its  lofty 
columns  and  giant  arches  defy  the  crumbling  breath  of 
centuries. 

The  greatest  illustration  of  the  use  of  imagination  in  poetry 
is  perhaps  found  in  Paradise  Lost  This  greatest  of  epic 
poems  is  almost  wholly  imaginative.  In  fact,  Milton  found  na 
prototype,  either  for  his  characters  or  their  actions.  Even  our 
first  parents,  treated  of  in  their  sinless  state,  as  they  left  the 
hand  of  their  Creator,  it  required  a  bold  imagination  to  picture. 
In  that  poem,  Milton  made  himself  familiar,  where  none  before 
scarcely  dared  cast  a  sidelong  glance.  He  soared  to  the  very 
regions  of  Deity,  and  transcribed  their  thoughts  and  actions- 
Founded  in  the  truth  of  Divine  Revelation,  he  supplied  from  his 
imagination  those  details  which  the  inspired  penman  omitted* 
The  great  epic  of  Homer  also  abounds  in  imagination.  He 
too,  ascends  to  the  abodes  of  Deity  ;  yet  that  which  Milton 
made  the  substance  of  his  poem,  Homer  used  only  as  ma- 
chinery. Where  he  sang  the  actions  of  his  Pagan  gods,  with 
reference  to  a  particular  hero,  Milton  acquaints  us  with  the 
workings  of  Almighty  Intellect,  in  regard  to  a  future  world. 

Imagination  is  the  parent  of  Art.  The  painter  but  traces  on 
his  canvass  the  outlines  of  the  gorgeous  ideal  pictured  on  his 
imagination.  The  sculptor  sighs,  when  on  the  completion  of 
his  master-piece,  he  finds  it  falls  so  far  short  of  the  original 
suggested  by  his  fancy.  Thus  it  is  the  world  over;  every 
thing  that  is  substantial,  instructive  and  solid,  is  the  result 
of  reason  ;  while  all  that  is  light,  airy,  pleasing  or  ornamental, 
is  the  work  of  imagination. 

From  Creation  to  the  present  moment,  Mind  has  ^swayed 
the  universe.  Its  noble  monuments  are  the  way-marks  of 
every  age.  Beautiful  obelisks,  splendid  palaces  and  exquisitely 
finished  temples,  scattered  at  intervals  along  the  great  highway 
of  time,  tell  of  this  mighty  power  and  its  achievements. 

That  the  blind  poet  sang,  and  the  substance  of  his  song,  have1 
come  down  to  us  from  ages,  which  even  history  hardly 
remembers.  The  works  of  HOMER,  SHAKSPEARE,  and  MILTON, 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  25 

endure,  when  the  history  of  the  times  in  which  they 
lived  and  wrote,  shall  have  faded  away.  The  arguments  of 
CICERO,  the  astronomy  of  NEWTON,  and  the  philosophy  of 
BACON  have  become  so  interwoven  into  the  very  existence  of 
the  world,  that  nought  but  the  final  dissolution  of  all  things 
will  destroy  them. 

The  effect  of  Mind  is  incalculable.  Nor  will  this  appear 
strange,  when  we  consider,  that  Mind  is  the  grand  moving 
principle  of  the  universe.  In  the  practical  world,  Mind  plans 
what  the  hands  accomplish.  In  the  intellectual  kingdom  the 
Mind  carries  out  its  own  conceptions  in  its  own  peculiar  man- 
ner. In  every-day  life  it  governs  the  agents  that  work  out 
its  designs.  In  the  province  of  literature,  it  acts  alike  in  the 
plan  and  its  development. 

The  vast  effect  which  Mind  produces  upon  the  moral  con- 
dition of  the  world,  is  but  a  single  instance  of  its  power.  The 
literature  of  an  age  marks,  in  a  great  measure,  the  degree  of 
its  morality.  The  thoughts  of  all,  in  this  age  of  universal 
intellect,  and  in  a  country  where  censorship  of  the  press  is 
unknown,  find  their  way  before  the  public,  and  exert  more  or 
less  influence.  A  sentiment  of  doubtful  morality,  carelessly 
uttered,  may  sow  in  some  youthful  Mind  the  seed  which,  when 
fully  ripened,  will  produce  the  fruit  of  infamy.  Those  who 
plead  that  popular  literature  only  conforms  to  public  taste, 
seem  to  forget,  that  it  is  the  effect  of  this  literature  itself,  that 
has  created  the  demand  for  it.  The  fact  that  the  public 
require  it,  is  rather  evidence  that  it  possesses  a  dangerous 
seductiveness,  than  proof  that  its  tendency  is  lofty  or  ele- 
vating. How  important  then  is  it,  that  the  aliment  provided 
for  the  public  Mind  —  and  aliment  of  some  kind  it  must  and 
will  have  —  should  be  of  a  healthy  and  nutritious  character, 
rather  than  of  a  deleterious  kind. 

Cultivated  Mind  is  the  bulwark  of  our  republic.  Our  gov- 
ernment is  based  upon  the  universal  intelligence  of  its  citizens. 
Nowhere  in  the  world  is  the  stock  of  public  intellect  so  gen- 
erally developed  as  in  the  United  States.  There  may  be 
countries  excelling  us  in  the  depth  of  classical  erudition,  yet 
the  sun  does  not  shine  upon  a  spot  of  earth  where  Mind  exerts 
such  an  active  influence  as  in  New  England.  What  a  vast 
responsibility,  therefore,  rests  upon  those  who  rule  in  the  realm 

4 


26  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

of  Mind !  It  is  to  them  that  we  look  to  close  the  flood-gates  of 
fiction,  and  open  the  store-house  of  reason.  Upon  them  re- 
poses the  trust  of  leading  the  youthful  Mind  of  the  country  to 
choose  the  solid  and  the  useful,  instead  of  the  purely  trifling, 
or  the  merely  ornamental. 


SONG  OF  THE  RECLAIMED. 


BY    THE    LATE    JOHN    J.    ADAMS. 

I  DRINK  no  more !  I  drink  no  more ! 

And  angels  flutter  at  the  sound  ; 
I  drink  no  more !    I  drink  no  more ! 
My  soul's  in  holy  rapture  bound. 

Oft  where  the  Patriarch  strayed  in  fear, 

My  wandering  feet  have  gaily  trod; 
"Whilst  yellow  leaf,  aye,  or  the  sear 

Did  scarce  remind  me  of  my  God ! 

But  it  is  past,  the  dreaded  sea  — 

The  sea  no  Rubicon  could  give ; 
And  in  its  tone,  so  joyfully, 

Murmurs,  poor  sinner,  thou  shalt  live. 

And  shall  I  live!  Oh  God!  how  kind  — 

To  a  tossed  mortal  on  that  sea; 
How  could  my  thoughts  have  been  so  blind 

When  thinking  on  eternity. 

No  good  Samaritan  I  found, 

When  wounded  in  life's  thorny  way ; 
But  faith  and  hope  my  spirit  crowned, 

And  point  to  an  eternal  day. 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  FRANKLIN. 

In   history  connected  with  Science    and  Printing, 
It   will   live  upon   Earth,    and   never    shall   die 

Till  the  last  form  is  graved  by   Heaven's   Mezzotinting, 
And  the  great  Globe  itself  is  dissolved  into  pi. 


THE    PRINTER'S  BOOK.  27 


THE  TOMB  BLOSSOMS. 


BY    WALTER   WHITMAN. 


A  PLEASANT,  fair-sized  country  village  —  a  village  embosom- 
ed in  trees,  with  old  churches,  one  tavern,  kept  by  a  respect- 
able widow  —  long,  single-storied  farm-houses,  their  roofs 
mossy,  and  their  chimneys  smoke  black  —  a  village  with 
much  grass  and  shrubbery,,  and  no  mortar,  no  bricks,  no 
pavements,  no  gas  —  no  newness!  that  is  the  place  for  him 
who  wishes  life  in  its  flavor  and  in  its  bloom.  Until  of  late, 
my  residence  has  been  in  such  a  spot. 

Men  of  cities !  what  is  there  in  all  your  boasted  pleasure 
—  your  fashions,  parties,  balls,  and  theatres,  compared  to  the 
simplest  of  the  delights  we  country  folk  enjoy?  Our  pure 
air  making  the  blood  leap  with  buoyant  health ;  our  labor 
and  our  exercise ;  our  freedom  from  the  sickly  vices  that 
taint  the  town ;  our  not  being  racked  with  notes  due,  or  the 
fluctuations  of  prices,  or  the  breaking  of  banks ;  our  manners 
of  sociality,  expanding  the  heart,  and  reacting  with  a  whole- 
some effect  upon  the  body;  can  any  thing,  which  citizens 
possess,  balance  these? 

One  Saturday,  after  paying  a  few  days'  visit  to  New- York, 
I  returned  to  my  quarters  at  the  country  inn.  The  day 
was  hot,  and  my  journey  a  disagreeable  one.  Out  of  humor 
with  myself  and  every  thing  around  me,  when  I  came  to  my 
travel's  end,  I  refused  to  partake  of  the  comfortable  supper 
which  my  landlady  had  prepared  for  me ;  and  returning  the 
good  woman's  look  of  wonder  at  such  an  unwonted  event, 
and  her  kind  inquiries  about  my  health,  with  a  sullen  silence 
I  took  my  lamp,  and  went  my  way  to  my  room.  Tired  and 
head  throbbing,  in  less  than  a  score  of  minutes  after  I  threw 
myself  upon  my  bed,  I  was  steeped  in  the  soundest  slumber. 

When  I  awoke,  every  vein  and  nerve  felt  fresh  and  free, 
Soreness  and  irritation  had  been  swept  away,  as  it  were. 


28  THE 

with  the  curtains  of  the  night;  and  the  accustomed  tone 
had  returned  again.  I  arose  and  threw  open  my  window. 
Delicious !  It  was  a  calm,  bright  Sabbath  morning  in  May. 
The  dew  drops  glittered  on  the  grass ;  the  fragrance  of  the 
apple  blossoms,  which  covered  the  trees,  floated  up  to  me ; 
and  the  notes  of  a  hundred  birds  discoursed  music  to  my  ear. 
By  the  rays  just  shooting  up  in  the  eastern  verge,  I  knew 
that  the  sun  would  be  risen  in  a  moment.  I  hastily  dressed 
myself,  performed  my  ablutions,  and  sallied  forth  to  take 
a  morning  walk. 

Sweet,  yet  simple  scene !  No  one  seemed  stirring. 
The  placid  influence  of  the  day  was  even  now  spread 
around,  quieting  every  thing,  and  hallowing  every  thing. 
I  sauntered  slowly  onward,  with  my  hands  folded  behind 
me.  I  passed  round  the  edge  of  a  hill,  on  the  rising  eleva- 
tion and  top  of  which  was  the  burial  ground.  On  my  left, 
through  an  opening  in  the  trees,  I  could  see  at  some  dis- 
tance the  ripples  of  our  beautiful  bay ;  on  my  right,  was 
the  large  ancient  field  for  the  dead.  I  stopped  and  leaned 
my  back  against  the  fence,  with  my  face  turned  toward 
the  white  marble  stones  a  few  rods  before  me.  All  I  saw 
was  far  from  new  to  me ;  and  yet  I  pondered  upon  it.  The 
entrance  to  that  place  of  tombs  was  a  kind  of  arch  —  a 
rough-hewn  and  hardy  piece  of  architecture,  that  had  stood 
winter  and  summer  over  the  gate  there,  for  many  years. 
O  !  fearful  arch !  if  there  were  for  thee  a  voice  to  utter  what 
has  passed  beneath  and  near  thee— if  the  secrets  of  the  earthy 
dwelling  that  to  thee  are  known  could  be  disclosed  — 
whose  ear  might  listen  to  the  appalling  story  and  its  posses- 
sor not  go  mad  with  terror  ? 

Thus  thought  I ;  and  strange  enough,  such  imagining  mar- 
red not  in  the  least  the  sunny  brightness  which  spread  alike 
over  my  mind  and  over  the  landscape.  Involuntarily  as  I 
mused,  my  look  was  cast  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  I  saw  a 
figure  moving.  Could  some  one  beside  myself  be  out  so 
early,  and  among  the  tombs  ?  What  creature  odd  enough  in 
fancy  to  find  pleasure  there,  and  at  such  a  time  ?  Contin- 
uing my  gaze,  I  saw  that  the  figure  was  a  woman. 

She  seemed  to  move  with  a  slow  and  a  feeble  step,  pass- 
ing and  repassing  constantly  between  two  and  the  same 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  29 

graves,  which  were  within  half  a  rod  of  each  other.  She 
would  bend  down  and  appear  to  busy  herself  a  few 
moments  with  the  one;  then  she  would  rise  and  go  to  the 
second,  and  bend  there  and  employ  herself  ag  at  the  first. 
Then  to  the  former  one.  and  then  to  the  second  again. 
Occasionally  the  shape  would  pause  a  moment,  and  stand 
back  a  little,  and  look  steadfastly  down  upon  the  graves, 
as  if  to  see  whether  her  work  were  done  well.  Thrice  I  saw 
her  walk  with  a  tottering  gait,  and  stands-midway  between 
the  two,  and  look  alternately  at  each.  Then  she  would  go 
to  one  and  arrange  something,  and  come  back  to  the  mid- 
way place,  and  gaze  first  on  the  right  and  then  on  the  left, 
as  before.  The  figure  evidently  had  some  trouble  to  ar- 
range things  to  her  mind.  Where  I  stood  I  could  hear  no 
noise  of  her  foot-fall ;  nor  could  I  see  accurately  enough 
to  tell  what  she  was  doing.  Had  a  superstitious  man  be- 
held the  spectacle,  he  would  possibly  have  thought  that 
some  spirit  of  the  dead,  allowed  the  night  before  to  burst  its 
cerements,  and  wander  forth  in  the  darkness,  had  been  be- 
lated in  returning,  and  was  now  perplexed  to  find  its  coffin- 
house  again. 

Curious  to  know  the  woman's  employment,  I  undid  the 
simple  fastenings  of  the  gate,  and  walked  over  the  rank  wet 
grass  towards  her.  As  I  came  near  I  recognized  her  for 
an  old,  a  very  old  inmate  of  the  poor-house,  named  Dela- 
ree.  Stopping  a  moment,  while  I  was  yet  several  yards 
from  her,  and  before  she  saw  me,  I  tried  to  call  to  recollec- 
tion certain  particulars  of  her  history  which  I  had  heard  a 
great  while  past.  She  was  a  native  of  one  of  the  West 
India  Islands,  and,  before  I  who  gazed  at  her  was  born,  had, 
with  her  husband,  come  hither  to  settle  and  gain  a  liveli- 
hood. They  were  poor,  most  miserably  poor.  Country 
people,  I  have  noticed,  seldom  like  foreigners.  So  this  man 
and  his  wife,  in  all  probability,  met  much  to  discourage 
them.  They  kept  up  their  spirits,  however,  until  at  last  their 
fortunes  became  desperate.  Famine  and  want  laid  iron  fin- 
gers upon  them.  They  had  no  acquaintance;  and  to  beg 
they  were  ashamed.  Both  were  taken  ill ;  then  the  charity 
that  had  been  so  slack  came  to  their  abode,  but  came  too 
late.  Delaree  died,  the  victim  of  poverty.  The  woman 


30  THE     PRINTER  '  3     B  O  O  K  . 

recovered  after  awhile ;  but  for  many  months  was  quite  an 
invalid,  and  was  sent  to  the  alms-house,  where  she  had 
ever  since  remained. 

This  was  the  story  of  the  aged  creature  before  me  ;  aged 
with  the  weight  of  seventy  winters.  I  walked  up  to  her. 
By  her  feet  stood  a  large  rude  basket,  in  which  I  beheld 
leaves  and  buds.  The  two  graves  which  I  had  seen  her 
passing  between  so  often  were  covered  with  flowers  —  the 
earliest  but  sweetest  flowers  of  the  season.  They  were 
fresh,  and  wet,  and  very  fragrant  —  those  soul-offerings. 
And  this,  then,  was  her  employment.  Flowers  frail  and 
passing,  grasped  by  the  hand  of  age,  and  scattered  upon  a 
tomb  !  White  hairs  and  pale  blossoms,  and  stone  tablets 
of  Death  ! 

"  Good  morning,  mistress/'  said  I,  quietly. 

The  withered  female  turned  her  eyes  to  mine  and  ac- 
knowledged my  greeting  in  the  same  spirit  wherewith  it 
was  given. 

"  May  I  ask  whose  graves  they  are  that  you  remember  so 
kindly  ?» 

She  looked  up  again  —  probably  catching,  from  my  man- 
ner, that  I  spoke  in  no  spirit  of  rude  inquisitiveness  —  and 
answered : 

"My  husband's." 

A  manifestation  of  fanciful  taste,  thought  I,  this  tomb- 
ornamenting,  which  she  probably  brought  with  her  from 
abroad.  Of  course  but  one  of  the  graves  could  be  her  hus- 
band's; and  one,  likely,  was  that  of  a  child,  who  had  died 
and  been  placed  by  its  father. 

"Whose   else?"  I  asked. 

"  My  husband's,"  replied  the  aged  widow. 

Poor  creature !  her  faculties  were  becoming  dim.  No 
doubt  her  sorrows  and  her  length  of  life  had  worn  both 
mind  and  body  nearly  to  the  parting. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  continued  I,  mildly:  "but  there  are  two 
graves.  One  is  your  husband's  and  the  other  is " 

I  paused  for  her  to  fill  the  blank. 

She  looked  at  me  for  a  minute,  as  if  in  wonder  at  my 
perverseness ;  and  then  answered  as  before. 

"  My  husband's.     None  but  Gilbert's." 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  31 

"And  is   Gilbert  buried  in  both?"  said  I. 

She  appeared  as  if  going  to  answer,  but  stopped  again, 
and  did  not.  Though  my  curiosity  was  now  somewhat 
excited,  I  forbore  to  question  her  farther,  feeling  that  it 
might  be  to  her  a  painful  subject.  I  was  wrong,  however. 
She  had  been  rather  agitated  at  my  intrusion,  and  her 
powers  flickered  for  a  moment.  They  were  soon  steady 
again,  and,  perhaps  gratified  with  my  interest  in  her  affairs, 
she  gave  me  in  a  few  brief  sentences  the  solution  of  the  mys- 
tery. When  her  husband's  death,  occurred,  she  was  herself 
confined  to  a  sick  bed,  which  she  did  not  leave  for  a  long 
while  after  he  was  buried.  Still  longer  days  passed  be- 
fore she  had  permission,  or  even  strength,  to  go  into  the 
open  air.  When  she  did,  her  first  efforts  were  essayed  to 
reach  Gilbert's  grave.  What  a  pang  sunk  to  her  heart 
when  she  found  it  could  not  be  pointed  out  to  her  !  With  the 
careless  indifference  which  is  shown  to  the  corpses  of  out- 
casts, poor  Delaree  had  been  thrown  into  a  hastily  dug 
hole,  without  any  one  noting  it,  or  remembering  which  it 
was.  Subsequently,  several  other  paupers  were  buried  in 
the  same  spot ;  and  the  sexton  could  only  show  two  graves 
to  the  disconsolate  woman,  and  tell  her  that  her  husband's 
was  positively  one  of  the  twain.  During  the  latter  stages 
of  her  recovery  she  had  looked  forward  to  the  consolation 
of  coming  to  his  tomb  as  to  a  shrine,  and  wiping  her  tears 
there ;  and  it  was  bitter  that  such  could  not  be.  The  mis- 
erable widow  even  attempted  to  obtain  the  consent  of  the 
proper  functionaries  that  the  graves  might  be  opened,  and 
her  anxieties  put  at  rest !  When  told  that  this  could  not  be 
done,  she  determined  in  her  soul  that  at  least  the  remnant 
of  her  hopes  and  intentions  should  not  be  given  up.  Eve- 
ry Sunday  morning,  in  the  mild  seasons,  she  went  forth 
early,  and  gathered  fresh  flowers,  and  dressed  both  the 
graves.  So  she  knew  that  the  right  one  was  cared  for, 
even  if  another  shared  that  care.  And  lest  she  should  pos- 
sibly bestow  the  most  of  this  testimony  of  love  on  him 
whom  she  knew  not,  but  whose  spirit  might  be  looking  down 
invisible  in  the  air,  and  smiling  upon  her,  she  was  ever  care- 
ful to  have  each  tomb  adorned  in  an  exactly  similar  man- 
ner. In  a  strange  land,  and  among  a  strange  race,  she  said, 


J2  THE     PR  INTERS     BOOK. 

it  was  like  communion  with  her  own  people  to  visit  that 
burial-ground. 

"If  I  could  only  know  which  to  bend  over  when  my 
heart  feels  heavy,"  thus  finished  the  sorrowing  being  as 
she  rose  to  depart,  "  then  it  would  be  a  happiness.  But, 
perhaps,  I  am  blind  to  my  dearest  mercies.  God,  in  his 
great  wisdom,  may  have  sent  that  I  cannot  be  sure  which 
grave  was  his,  lest  grief  over  it  should  become  too  com- 
mon a  luxury  for  me,  and  melt  me  away." 

I  offered  to  accompany  her,  and  support  her  feeble  steps ; 
but  she  preferred  that  it  should  not  be  so.  With  languid 
feet  she  moved  on.  t  watched  her  pass  through  the  gate 
and  under  the  arch ;  I  saw  her  turn,  and  in  a  little  while 
she  was  hidden  from  my  view.  Then  I  carefully  parted  the 
flowers  upon  one  of  the  graves,  and  sat  down  there,  and 
leaned  my  face  in  my  open  hands  and  thought  — 

What  a  wondrous  thing  is  human  love !  Oh !  Thou 
whose  mighty  attribute  is  the  incarnation  of  love,  I  bless 
Thee  that  Thou  didst  make  this  fair  disposition  in  our  hearts, 
and  didst  root  it  there  so  deeply  that  it  is  stronger  than  all 
else,  and  can  never  be  torn  out !  Here  is  this  aged  way- 
farer—  a  woman  of  trials  and  griefs — decrepid,  sore,  and 
steeped  in  poverty  —  the  most  forlorn  of  her  kind,  and  yet, 
through  all  the  storms  of  misfortune,  and  the  dark  cloud  of 
years  settling  upon  her,  the  memory  of  her  love  hovers 
like  a  beautiful  spirit  amid  the  gloom,  and  never  deserts  her, 
but  abides  with  her  while  life  abides.  Yes !  this  creature 
loved ;  this  wrinkled,  skinny,  gray-haired  crone  had  her 
heart  to  swell  with  passion,  and  her  pulses  to  throb,  and 
her  eyes  to  sparkle.  Now,  nothing  remains  but  a  lovely 
remembrance,  coming  as  of  old,  and  stepping  in  its  accus- 
tomed path,  not  to  perform  its  former  object,  or  its  former 
duty  —  but  from  long  habit.  Nothing  but  that!  Ah!  is  not 
that  a  great  deal  ? 

And  the  buried  man  —  he  was  happy  to  have  passed  away 
as  he  did.  The  woman  —  she  was  the  one  to  be  pitied. 
Without  doubt  she  wished  many  times  that  she  were  laid  be- 
side him.  And  not  only  she,  thought  I,  as  I  cast  my  eyes 
on  the  solemn  memorials  around  me:  but  at  the  same  time 
there  were  thousands  else  on  earth  who  panted  for  the  long 


THE   PRINTER'S     BOOK.  33 

repose,  as  a  tired  child  for  the  night.  The  grave —the 
grave.  What  foolish  man  calls  it  a  dreadful  place  ?  It  is  a 
kind  friend,  whose  arms  shall  compass  us  round  about,  and 
while  we  lay  our  heads  upon  his  bosom,  no  care,  temptation 
nor  corroding  passion  shall  have  power  to  disturb  us.  Then 
the  weary  spirit  shall  no  more  be  weary;  the  aching  head 
and  aching  heart  will  be  strangers  to  pain  ;  and  the  soul  that 
has  fretted  and  sorrowed  away  its  little  life  on  earth  will 
sorrow  not  any  more.  When  the  mind  has  been  roaming 
abroad  in  the  crowd,  and  returns  sick  and  tired  of  hollow 
hearts,  and  of  human  deceit  —  let  us  think  of  the  grave  and 
death,  and  they  will  seem  like  soft  and  pleasant  music. 
Such  thoughts  then  soothe  and  calm  our  pulses  ;  they  open  a 
peaceful  prospect  before  us. 

There  have  of  late  frequently  come  to  me  times  when  I  do 
not  dread  the  grave — when  I  could  lie  down,  and  pass  my 
immortal  part  through  the  valley  and  shadow,  as  composedly 
as  I  quaff  water  after  a  tiresome  walk.  For  what  is  there  of 
terror  in  taking  our  rest  ?  What  is  there  here  below  to  draw 
us  with  such  fondness  ?  Life  is  the  running  of  a  race — a  most 
weary  race,  sometimes.  Shall  we  fear  the  goal,  merely  be- 
cause it  is  shrouded  in  a  cloud  ? 

I  rose,  and  carefully  replaced  the  parted  flowers,  and  bent 
my  steps  homewards. 

If  there  be  any  sufficiently  interested  in  the  fate  of  the  aged 
woman,  that  they  wish  to  know  farther  about  her,  for  those  I 
will  add  that  ere  long  her  affection  was  transferred  to  a  region 
where  it  might  receive  the  reward  of  its  constancy  and  purity. 
Her  last  desire,  and  it  was  complied  with  —  was  that  phe 
should  be  placed  midway  between  the  two  graves. 


THE  JOUR.  PRINTER.  —  A  man  of  many  professions ;  like 
the  lawyer,  he  feels  the  advantage  of  a  good  case;  like 
the  doctor,  from  his  practice  is  his  gain ;  like  the  parson, 
he  zealously  seeks  for  errors,  and  corrects  them ;  like  the 
poet,  he  dwells  amid  types ;  like  the  military  chieftain,  he 
marshals  his  thousands  ;  — r-  a  man  of  great  craft,  and  no 
wonder,  when  the  devil  helps  him. 

5 


34  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

BY     WILLIAM     W.     HOLDEN. 

Go  out  beneath  the  arching  Heaven  in  night's  profound 
gloom,  and  say,  if  you  can,  "  THERE  is  NO  GOD  !"  Pro- 
nounce that  dread  blasphemy,  and  each  star  above  you  will 
reproach  you  for  your  unbroken  darkness  of  intellect  — 
every  voice  that  floats  upon  the  night-winds  will  bewail  your 
utter  hopelessness  and  despair !  "  Is  there  no  GOD  ?"  Who, 
then  unrolled  that  blue  scroll  and  threw  upon  its  high 
frontispiece  the  legible  gleamings  of  immortality?  Who 
fashioned  this  green  earth  —  with  its  perpetual  rollings  of 
waters  and  its  wide  expanse  of  island  and  main  ?  Who 
settled  the  foundations  of  the  mountains  ?  Who  paved  the 
Heavens  with  clouds  and  attuned  amid  the  banners  of 
storms  the  voice  of  thunders  and  unchained  the  lightnings 
that  linger  and  lurk,  and  flash  in  their  gloom?  Who  gave 
to  the  eagle  a  safe  eyrie  where  the  tempests  dwell  and 
beat  strongest,  and  to  the  dove  a  tranquil  abode  amid  the 
forests  that  ever  echo  to  the  minstrelsy  of  her  moan  ?  Who 
made  THEE,  oh  Man!  with  thy  perfected  elegance  of  intel- 
lect and  of  form  ?  Who  made  the  light  pleasant  to  thee, 
and  the  darkness  a  covering  and  a  herald  to  the  first  beau- 
tiful flashes  of  the  morning?  Who  gave  thee  that  match- 
less symmetry  of  smew  and  limb  ?  That  regular  flowing  of 
blood!  Those  irrepressible  and  daring  passions  of  ambi- 
tion and  of  love  ?  No  GOD  ?  And  yet  the  thunders  of  heaven 
and  the  waters  of  earth  are  silent  and  calm !  Is  there 
no  lightning,  that  Heaven  is  not  avenged?  Are  there  no 
floods,  that  man  is  not  swept  under  a  deluge  ?  They  remain 

—  but  the  bow  of  reconciliation  hangs  out  above  and  beneath 
them.     And  it  were  better  that  the  limitless  waters   and  the 
strong  mountains  were  convulsed  and  commingled  together 

—  it  were  better  that  the  very  stars  were   conflagrated  by 
fire  or  shrouded  in  gloom,  than  that  ONE  soul  should  be  lost 
while  Mercy  kneels  and  pleads  for  it  beneath  the  Altar  of 
intercession ! 


THE     PRINTER'S    BOOK.  35 


EXTRACT  FROM  AN  EXTEMPORANEOUS  ADDRESS,  DELIVERED  BE- 
FORE THE  WASHINGTON  MONUMENT  ASSOCIATION,  IN  THE 
CITY  OF  NEW-YORK. 

BY     ELY     MOORE. 

POSTERITY  will  regard  the  structure  we  propose  to  raise,  not 
only  as  a  becoming  memorial  to  WASHINGTON,  but  also  as  an 
evidence  of  the  skill,  the  enterprise,  the  patriotism,  and  the 
gratitude  of  our  age. 

We  have  just  been  told  if  we  should  erect  a  monument, 
that  the  wing  of  time  will  sweep  it  from  its  base,  and  lay 
it  low  in  the  dust;  and,  by  way  of  illustration,  we  have 
been  referred  to  the  shattered  and  dilapidated  monuments 
of  antiquity.  The  column  of  Trajan,  the  Dacian  conqueror,  it 
has  been  said,  no  longer  towers  in  its  former  pride  and  stateli- 
ness,  but  that  his  name  still  lives,  not  only  on  the  pages  of 
Pliny,  but  in  the  universal  remembrance  of  mankind.  I  grant 
it  all.  But  then,  I  ask,  was  there  no  utility  in  the  structure  ? 
Did  it  serve  no  important  purpose  in  a  national  point  of  view  ? 
Has  it  not  stood  as  a  proud  monument  of  gratitude  to  those 
who  reared  it  ?  Besides,  was  it  not  the  direct  medium,  through 
which  has  been  transmitted  to  posterity,  the  name  of  Appollo- 
dorus,  the  architect,  who  conceived  and  executed  it  ?  And  has 
not  Rome  ample  cause  to  be  proud  of  that  name  ?  True,  gen- 
tlemen, true,  the  noble  monuments  of  Rome  are  despoiled  of 
their  former  grandeur.  The  rude  hand  of  time,  and  the  still 
more  ruthless  hand  of  man,  have  well  nigh  achieved  their  ruin. 
Destruction  has  been  and  is  still  at  work  among  their  remains. 
But  'do  not  the  Palace  of  the  Caesars,  the  Forum,  the  Pan- 
theon, and  the  Coliseum,  yea,  all  the  remains  of  ancient  Rome 
hie  equally  fast  to  their  fate  ?  Flocks  and  herds  graze  around 
the  altar  where  captive  kings  were  once  arraigned,  and  soli- 
tary is  that  arena  where  once  rung  out  the  loud  huzzas  of 


36  THE    POINTER'S    BOOK; 

thousands.  The  ancient  mistress  of  the  world  has  well  nigh 
slid  from  her  seven  hills,  and  even  those  very  hills,  upon  whose 
proud  summits  she  sat  enthroned,  in  imposing  pomp  and  impe- 
rial grandeur,  are  fast  wasting  away ;  and  as  the  wild  wolf 
erst  made  his  ambuscade,  and  the  fallow  deer  his  lair,  whet'e 
Rome  now  stands — so  shall  the  wolf  and  deer  make  their 
ambuscade  and  lair  upon  the  site  of  Rome,  when  Rome, 
like  Illium,  shall  cease  to  be  a  town.  Still,  still  her  name 
shall  survive  and  flourish  so  long  as  knowledge  and  letters 
endure.  That  name  has  been  rendered  glorious  and  ever- 
lasting, not  by  the  power  of  her  arms  alone,  but  by  great 
and  holy  deeds  of  peace.  Her  fame  rests  not  so  much 
upon  her  achievements  in  war,  as  upon  the  number  and  gran- 
deur of  her  villas,  her  temples,  and  monuments ;  the  skill  of 
her  artists,  the  eloquence  of  her  orators,  and  the  enterprise  and 
gratitude  of  her  citizens. 

When  the  Arts  had  attained  their  zenith  in  Greece,  the 
marbles  of  Mount  Hymettus  and  Prion,  Pentelicus  and  Paros, 
at  the  bidding  of  Phidias  and  Alcamenes,  Scopas  and  Praxiteles, 
started  into  life,  and  told  to  the  world  her  patriots'  gratitude. 
To  Theseus  and  Minerva,  the  greatest  of  her  benefactors,  were 
reared  the  most  magnificent  of  her  temples ;  and  although  the 
monuments  have  partially  crumbled  beneath  the  tooth  of  time, 
yet  the  noble  and  generous  motives,  which  prompted  the  citi- 
zens to  the  enterprise,  will  be  appreciated  so  long  as  virtue  has 
an  admirer,  or  patriotism  a  friend.  Greece,  in  the  fame  of  her 
artists,  alone,  has  a  sufficient  guarantee,  of  her  immortality. 
Her  name,  associated  as  it  is,  with  that  of  Phidias,  must  live 
forever. 

Fellow-Citizens,  has  America  no  artist  whose  genius  can 
contribute  to  her  fame  ?  We  know  she  has.  We  have  already 
been  furnished  with  the  evidence.*  Then  let  us  hasten  to  the 
task,  "  while  gratitude  is  still  fresh  in  recollection,"  and  raise 
to  the  memory  of  WASHINGTON,  a  monument  that  shall  be 
worthy  of  the  age  in  which  it  is  our  high  destiny  to  live. 

Let  us  no  longer  suffer  it  to  be  said,  that  the  heathens  of 
Greece  and  Rome  gave  stronger  evidence  of  gratitude  to  the 
memory  of  their  heroes  than  we,  the  citizens  of  the  great 

*  Frazee's  bust  of  John  Jay. 


PRINTER'S    BOOK.  37 

Commercial  Emporium  of  free  and  prosperous  America,  have 
to  our  benefactors.  We  have  by  our  negligence,  by  our  luke- 
\varmness,  incurred  the  reproach.  Let  us  no  longer  deserve 
it ;  and  let  the  structure  we  propose  to  raise,  be  of  such  mag- 
nitude and  excellence,  as  shall  atone  for  our  former  neglect. 
Let  it  rise  till  it  proudly  overlooks  the  lofty  domes  and  glitter- 
ing spires  of  our  city.  Let  it  be  the  last  object  upon  which 
the  eye  of  the  patriot  shall  linger,  when  departing  from,  and 
the  first  to  greet  him  when  returning  to,  his  native  land.  "  Let 
it  rise,  till  it  meet  the  sun  in  his  coming ;  let  the  earliest  light 
of  the  morning  gild  it,  and  parting  day  linger  and  play  on  its 
summit." 

Gentlemen, — If  there  ever  lived  a  man  whose  services  and 
virtues  challenged  the  gratitude  of  his  country,  more  especial- 
ly than  that  of  any  other — that  man  was  GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 
Ponder  the  history  of  the  past — explore  the  archives  of  an- 
tiquity ;  yea,  search  creation  through,  and  I  defy  you  to  point 
to  a  solitary  name,  (when  taken  all  and  in  all,)  that  shines  with 
a  brighter,  a  purer,  a  steadier  lustre  than  that  of  WASHINGTON. 
Egypt  had  her  Sesostris— Crete  her  Minos  —  Athens  her  So- 
lon —  Sparta  her  Lycurgus  • —  Rome  her  Numa  —  Britain  her 
Alfred  —  and  America,  thank  God,  her  WASHINGTON.  As  a 
warrior,  statesman,  and  philosopher,  he  was  inferior  to  none. 
Brave  as  Leonidas,  prudent  as  Fabius,  and  wise  and  just  as 
Aristides.  Who  will  assert,  then,  that  the  most  renowned  and 
illustrious  of  antiquity  —  whether  warriors,  statesmen  or  phi- 
losophers, better  deserved  the  gratitude  of  their  country  than 
does  WASHINGTON  the  gratitude  of  America  ?  And  shall  we, 
my  countrymen  —  shall  we  who  have  been  blessed  with  the 
greatest  benefactor  that  gracious  heaven  ever  vouchsafed  to 
any  people,  longer  show  ourselves  cold  and  ungrateful  ?  Un- 
grateful, not  only  to  WASHINGTON,  but  to  that  Being  who 
created,  directed,  and  sustained  him  !  Yea,  ungrateful  to  that 
God  who  gave  us  WASHINGTON.  You  are  ready  to  exclaim, 
*"  the  insinuation  is  a  calumny  —  a  libel  on  our  characters." 
Then  for  our  own  —  for  our  country's  —  and  Heaven's  sake, 
let  us  prove  it  so  ! 

You  certainly  do  not  require  that  anything,  by  way  of  ex- 
hortation, should  be  said  in  order  to  stimulate  you  to  vigorous 


38  THE   PRINTER'S   BOOK. 

exertions  in  this  matter.  It  would  be  paying  but  a  sorry  com- 
pliment to  your  liberality  and  patriotism,  gentlemen,  to  indulge 
such  a  supposition.  Neither  is  it  necessary  to  dwell  upon  his 
character,  or  the  glory  of  his  deeds,  in  order  to  excite  your 
gratitude,  or  enkindle  your  enthusiasm.  His  character  is 
impressed  upon  all  that  we  behold  around  us  which  wears 
the  stamp  of  greatness.  His  praises  are  uttered  from  the 
thousand  free  and  liberal  institutions  of  our  country.  The 
morning  hymn  and  evening  orison  bear  witness  to  his  virtues 
—  and  the  song  of  praise  and  of  gladness  that  pervades  and 
cheers  our  happy  land,  breathe  forth  his  eulogy.  How  vain 
and  futile — how  poor  and  impotent  then  must  appear  an  at- 
tempt to  do  justice  to  his  character,  or  impart  additional  lustre 
to  the  halo  of  glory  that  surrounds  his  name.  And  yet,  fel- 
low-citizens, my  feelings  strongly  urge  me  to  call  your  atten- 
tion, for  a  moment,  to  that  period  of  the  revolutionary  strug- 
gle, which,  more  than  any  other,  was  calculated  to  "try 
men's  souls,"  and  test  the  sincerity  of  their  patriotism.  I 
allude  to  that,  just  previous  to  the  battle  of  Trenton,  when  a 
succession  of  reverses  had  well-nigh  broken  the  spirits  of  our 
people ;  when  our  finances  were  embarrassed ;  when  the 
sources  of  our  revenue  were  dried  up ;  when  discord  began 
to  raise  her  hellish  crest;  when  doubts  and  misgivings 
crept  into  the  bosoms  of  the  faithful,  and  the  heart  of 
the  virtuous  patriot  sunk  within  him,  and  in  agony  trembled 
over  his  hopes ;  —  in  that  hour  of  peril,  of  darkness  and 
dismay,  when  despair,  aye,  even  death  itself,  seemed  to  stalk 
across  our  path  —  who  was  it  then,  let  me  ask,  that  stood  forth 
as  the  only  director  of  our  fortunes  —  as  the  only  champion 
of  our  hopes  ?  Who  was  it  that  rebuked  and  silenced  the 
spirit  of  disaffection,  and  hushed  the  fears  and  strengthened  the 
hopes  of  the  timid  and  the  wavering?  'Twas  WASHINGTON! — • 
the  idol  of  the  soldier,  the  counsellor  of  the  wise,  and  the 
beloved  and  revered  by  all. 

In  no  one  instance,  perhaps,  was  his  influence  with  the  army 
so  strikingly  exemplified,  as  in  his  attack  on  the  enemy  at 
Trenton.  O'er  and  o'er  have  I  listened  with  intense  anxiety, 
in  the  days  of  my  boyhood,  whilst  my  now  departed  sire,  who 
fought  and  bled  on  that  proud  field,  recited,  with  thrilling  inte- 


BOOK.  39 

rest,  all  that  related  to  the  enterprise.  It  was  on  a  December's 
night,  (would  he  say)  when  our  little  heart-broken  army  halted 
on  the  banks  of  the  Delaware.  That  night  was  dark — cheer- 
less—  tempestuous  —  and  bore  a  strong  resemblance  to  our 
country's  fortunes.  It  seemed  as  if  heaven  and  earth  had 
conspired  for  our  destruction.  The  clouds  lowered  —  dark- 
ness and  the  storm  came  on  apace.  The  snow  a-nd  the  hail 
descended,  beating  with  unmitigated  violence  upon  the  supper- 
less,  half-clad,  shivering  soldier  —  and  in  the  roarings  of  the 
flood,  and  the  wailings  of  the  storm,  was  heard,  by  fancy's  ear, 
the  knell  of  our  hopes  and  the  dirge  of  liberty !  The  impet- 
uous river  was  filled  with  floating  ice  —  an  attempt  to  cross 
it  at  that  time,  and  under  such  circumstances,  seemed  a  despe- 
rate enterprise ;  yet  it  was  undertaken ;  and,  thanks  be  to  God 
and  WASHINGTON,  accomplished. 

From  where  we  landed  on  the  Jersey  shore  to  Trenton,  was 
about  nine  miles,  and  on  the  whole  line  of  march  there  was 
scarcely  a  word  uttered,  save  by  the  officers  when  giving  some 
order.  We  were  well  nigh  exhausted,  said  he,  many  of  us 
frost-bitten,  and  the  majority  of  us  so  badly  shod,  that  the  blood 
gushed  from  our  frozen  and  lacerated  feet  at  every  tread  — 
yet  we  upbraided  not,  complained  not,  but  marched  stead- 
ily and  firmly,  though  mournfully,  onward,  resolved  to  per- 
severe to  the  uttermost;  not  for  our  country  —  our  country, 
alas  !  we  had  given  up  for  lost.  Not  for  ourselves  —  life  for 
us  no  longer  wore  a  charm  —  but  because  such  was  the  will  of 
our  beloved  chief —  'twas  for  WASHINGTON  alone  we  were  will- 
ing to  make  the  sacrifice.  When  we  arrived  within  sight  of 
the  enemy's  encampments,  we  were  ordered  to  form  a  line, 
when  WASHINGTON  reviewed  us.  Pale  and  emaciated,  dispir- 
ited and  exhausted,  we  presented  a  most  unwarlike  and  mel- 
ancholy aspect.  The  paternal  eye  of  our  chief  was  quick  to 
discover  the  extent  of  our  sufferings  and  acknowledge  them 
with  his  tears ;  but  suddenly  checking  his  emotions  he  remind- 
ed us,  that  our  country  and  all  that  we  held  dear,  was  staked 
upon  the  issue  of  the  coming  battle.  As  he  spake,  we  gathered 
ourselves  up  and  rallied  our  energies  ;  every  man  grasped  his 
arms  more  firmly  —  and  the  clenched  hand,  and  the  compressed 
lip,  and  tho  steadfast  look,  and  the  knit  brow  told  the  soul's 


40  THE   PRINTER'S   BOOK. 

resolve.    WASHINGTON  observed  us  well ;  then  did  he  exhort 

us,  with  all  the  fervor  of  his  soul:  *  On  yonder  field  to  conquer, 

or  die  the  death  of  the  brave/     At  that  instant,  the  glorious 

sun,  as  if  in  prophetic  token  of  our  success,  burst  forth  in  all 

his  splendor,  bathing  in  liquid  light  the  blue  hills  of  Jersey. 

The  faces,  which,  but  a  few  moments  before,  were  blanched 

with   despair,  now  glowed  with  martial  fire  and  animation. 

Our  chief,  with  exultation,  hailed  the  scene ;  then  casting  his 

doubts  to  the  winds,  and  calling  on  the  '  God  of  battles,'  and 

his  faithful  soldiers,  led  on  the  charge.     The  conflict  was  fierce 

and  bloody.     For  more  than  twenty  minutes  not  a  gun  was, 

fired — the  sabre  and  the  bayonet  did  the  work  of  destruction  ; 

'twas  a  hurricane  of  fire,  and  steel,  and  death.     There  did  we 

stand,  (would  he  say)  there  did  we  stand, '  foot  to  foot,  and  hilt 

to  hilt,'  with  the  serried  foe  !'  and  where  we  stood  we  died  or 

conquered."     The  result  of  that  action,  gentlemen,  is  known  ito 

you  all ;  as  are  also  its  bearings  upon  the  fortunes  of  America* 

Had  defeat  attended  our  arms  at  that  trying  crisis,  our  cause 

was  lost  —  forever  lost ;  and  freedom  had  found  a  grave  oa 

the  plains  of  Trenton. 


DR.  FRANKLIN'S  OFFER  TO  A  YOUNG  MAN. 

«*  MAKE  a  full  estimate  of  all  that  is  owing  to  you.  Re- 
duce the  same  to  a  note.  As  fast  as  you  can  collect,  pay 
over  to  those  you  owe.  If  you  cannot  collect,  renew  your 
note  every  year  and  get  the  best  security  you  can.  Go  to 
business  diligently,  and  be  industrious ;  waste  no  idle  mo- 
ments ;  be  very  economical  in  all  things ;  discard  all  pride ; 
be  faithful  in  your  duty  to  God,  by  regular  and  hearty 
prayer  every  morning  and  night;  attend  Church  regularly 
every  Sunday ;  and  do  unto  all  men  as  you  would  they 
should  do  unto  you.  If  you  are  too  needy  in  circumstances 
to  give  to  the  poor,  do  whatever  else  lies  in  your  power 
for  them  cheerfully ;  but  if  you  can,  always  help  the  worthy 
poor  and  unfortunate.  Pursue  this  course  diligently  and  sin- 
cerely for  seven  years ;  and  if  you  are  not  happy,  com- 
fortable, and  independent  in  your  circumstances,  come  to  me, 
and  I  will  pay  your  debts." 


T  it  E   PRINTER'S    BOOK.  41 


A  PLEA  FOR  THE  POOR. 


BY     REV.    A.    G.    HALL. 

A  PERCEPTION  of  the  divine  relations  to  the  whole  race  is 
'essential  to  a  proper  sense  of  obligation  to  our  fellow-men. 
It  is  when  we  perceive  God  to  be  the  Creator  and  Pre- 
iserver  of  all  men,  that  we  feel  ourselves  to  be  the  children  of 
a  common  parent,  and  sectional  and  national  prejudices  give 
place  to  the  yearnings  of  fraternal  affection.  It  is  when  we 
perceive  the  relation  of  divine  ownership  to  the  earth  and  the 
fulness  thereof,  that  we  are  prepared  to  regard  ourselves  as 
stewards,  and  accountable  to  Him  for  the  talents  committed  to 
our  trust.  It  is  when  we  consider  God  as  compassionating  the 
poor  -£-  as  listening  to  their  cries  —  as  pitying  their  distresses, 
that  contempt  gives  place  to  commisseration,  and  our  hands 
are  opened  for  their  relief.  A  sense  of  the  divine  condescen- 
sion towards  the  unfortunate  and  the  suffering,  relieves  pov- 
erty of  its  repulsive  aspects,  and  surrounds  it  with  a  sacred* 
ness  which  attracts  our  kindest  sympathies,  and  opens  channels 
for  our  abundance  to  flow  out  and  fertilize  their  barrenness* 

We  do  not  deny  the  existence  of  natural  sympathy  in  thosa 
who  are  blind  to  these  relations  of  the  Divine  Being  to  the 
poor  and  suffering,  but  its  exercise  in  the  form  of  practical 
charity  is  restricted,  partial,  and  fitful,  unless  the  heart  and 
conscience  are  yielded  to  the  control  of  the  truths  involved  in 
this  condescending  attitude  of  our  Creator.  Without  this,  a 
tale  of  human  woe,  adorned  with  the  captivating  arts  of  nar- 
rative, may  open  the  fountain  of  tears,  while  the  sight  of  actual 
suffering,  accompanied  by  the  disgusts  of  poverty,  awakens 
contempt  and  turns  the  feet  away  from  the  abodes  of  filth  and 
sorrow.  So,  also,  when  we  are  destitute  of  a  perception  of 
the  divinb  right  of  property  in  ourselves,  and  in  all  our  pos- 
sessions, we  recognize  no  rule  to  direct  us  in  the  use  of  our 
talents,  but  the  uncertain  impulses  of  an  erratic  heart. 

6 


42  THE   PRINTER'S   BOO E. 

Why  did  God  create  this  beautiful  and  fertile  earth  ?    Was 
it  with  the  design  of  furnishing  a  portion  of  His  creatures  with 
the  means  of  subsistence  and  pleasure,  while  another  portion 
were  to  pine  in  want  and  sorrow  ?     No  one  can  assent  to  a 
doctrine  so  repugnant  to  correct  views  of  the  universal  and 
infinite  benevolence  of  the  Divine  Being.     All  are  ready  to 
admit,  at  least  in  theory,  that  He  created  the  earth  for  the  sus- 
tenance and  happiness  of  all  His  creatures.     The  loftiest  heart 
of  pride  will  not  deny  that  "  He  causeth  the  grass  to  grow  for 
the   cattle,  and   herb   for  the  service  of  man,  that  he  may 
bring  forth  food  out  of  the  earth."     While  this  is  true,  yet  ac- 
cording to  the  conventional  arrangements  of  men,  the  exclu- 
sive right  of  property  in  the  earth  is  confined  to  a  few.     But 
it  is  evident,  that  if  God  created  the  earth  for  the  sustenance 
of  the  whole  race,  that  human  laws,  with  reference  to  its  own- 
ership, cannot  rightfully  deprive  one  man  of  the  means  of  sub- 
sistence, while  another  possesses  a  large  surplus ;  for  the  right 
of  the  poor  to  the  means  of  living  Was  vested  in  the  general 
grant  of  the  Creator,  and  cannot  be  disturbed  by  any  subse- 
quent enactments  of  subordinate  authority.     We  do  not  mean 
by  this,  that  the  divine  gift  of  the  earth  to  the  whole  race  pre- 
cludes its  division  and  subdivision  to  those  who  acquire  a  title 
according  to  human  law.     Agrarianism  is  not  the  doctrine  to 
fte  deduced  from  this  divine  grant  to  all.     Yet  this  grant  does 
most  obviously  give  the  poor  a  right  to  the  means  necessary 
for  ffeeir  subsistence.     But  this  right  is  not  that  of  ownership 
in  the  soil.     It  is  the  right  of  charity — a  claim  to  such  a  por^ 
tion  of  the  fruits  of  the  earth  as  are  adequate  to  their  necessary 
wants. 

The  gift  of  the  earth  to  man  was- not  a  transfer  of  the  abso- 
lute title  from  God  to  the  race.  Man,  with  respect  to  the  Cre- 
ator, is  only  a  tenant  at  will  — or  in  other  words,  He  places- 
property  in  our  hands  as  His  agents  or  stewards,  and  retains 
the  right  of  dispossessing  us  at  His  pleasure.  This  right  He 
expressly  claims.  He  asserts  it  not  only  with  reference  to  the 
natural  sources  of  wealth,  but  of  all  the  products  of  human 
skill  and  labor:  "The  earth  is  the  Lord's  and  the  fulness 
thereof.  Thy  silver  and  thy  gold  are  mine  — every  beast  of 
the  forest  is  mine,  and  the  cattle  upon  a  thousand  hills."  The1 
Jews  were  perpetually  reminded  that  the  fee- simple  of  their 


THE    PRINTER'S   BOOK.  43 

country  was  in  their  Creator,  by  laws  which  He  enacted  with 
reference  to  the  transfer  of  real  estate,  and  the  year  of  Jubilee. 
If  they  inquired  into  the  reason  of  the  statute  in  these  respects, 
the  divine  answer  was :  "The  land  shall  not  be  sold  forever, 
for  the  land  is  mine."  The  claim  which  He  here  asserts  to  the 
land  of  Canaan,  holds  with  reference  to  every  foot  of  the  earth. 
This  claim  He  not  only  maintains  in  revelation,  but  sustains  by 
His  providence.  Take,  as  an  illustration,  the  expulsion  of  the 
original  inhabitants  of  Palestine,  and  the  transfer  of  their  posses- 
sions to  the  descendants  of  Abraham.  The  Canaanites  enjoyed 
as  good  a  title  to  their  property,  so  far  as  human  laws  are  con- 
cerned, as  any  people  on  the  earth.  They  had  acquired  posses- 
sion and  ownership  of  the  soil  in  a  mode  as  fair  and  honorable, 
for  aught  that  appears,  as  any  other  people ;  yet  several  hun- 
dred years  before  they  were  dispossessed,  God  conveyed  their 
country,  by  covenant  and  promise,  to  Abraham.  By  virtue  of 
this  transfer,  the  descendants  of  Abraham  entered  by  force  of 
arms,  drove  them  out  and  took  possession.  Now  to  deny  God's 
supreme  right  to  the  possessions  of  these  people,  would  be  to 
charge  Him  with  injustice  and  cruelty  in  commanding  and  aid- 
ing the  Israelites  to  prosecute  a  war  of  conquest  and  extermin- 
ation against  them.  But  in  this  transaction  God  only  main- 
tained the  right  which  He  claims  to  all  human  possessions* 
He  makes  no  distinction  in  this  claim  between  the  earth  liter- 
ally and  the  products  of  human  labor.  By  His  providence  He 
takes  from  one  and  gives  to  another,  as  He  commissions  the 
ministers  of  destruction,  and  sweeps  away  the  accumulation 
which  is  the  result  of  a  life  of  human  diligence  and  frugality. 
He  lets  loose  the  winds  which  He  holds  in  His  fists,  and  the 
gallant  ship  freighted  with  riches,  bounds  for  a  time  from  wave 
to  wave — struggling  amid  the  wild  tumult  of  frenzied  waters, 
and  then  sinks  in  the  bosom  of  the  deep,  or  is  dashed  a  hopeless 
wreck  upon  the  shore.  He  bids  the  sleeping  hurricane  awake, 
and  hurl,  in  mad  confusion,  the  proud  residences  of  men  with 
their  fruitful  fields  and  majestic  forests.  He  lifts  the  windows 
of  heaven  and  pours  out  a  flood  of  waters,  and  sweeps  away 
the  wealth  acquired  by  a  long  life-  of  toil.  He  causeth  the 
earth  to  quake,  and  whole  cities  are  tumbled  into  ruins.  He 
etirs  the  volcanic  fires,  and  the  burning  lava  issues  forth  to  the 
work  of  devastation  upon  the  fairest  and  costliest  products  of 


44 

human  skill.  In  all  this  God  asserts  and  maintains  His;  light 
to  the  property  in  men's  hands.  There  is  no  claim  of  right,  or 
title  above  His.  He  can  therefore  with  perfect  justice  disin- 
herit a  whole  nation  or  a  single  individual.  It  is  only  as 
a  grant  from  Him  that  kings  hold  their  crowns,  nations  their 
country,  and  private  men  their  possessions. 

If  God  is  the  absolute  owner  of  all  things,  even  what  men 
acquire  by  their  labor,  then  men  are  His  agents  or  stewards, 
and  he  Has  a  just  right  of  entire  control  over  the  property  in 
their  hands. 

It  is  a  principle  of  the  divine  economy  in  harmony  with  this 
truth,  that  no  grant  is.  conferred  upon  any  for  the  benefit  of  the 
recipient  alone,  but  for  the  good  of  others,  also.  When  He 
raises  one  to  a  station  of  authority  and  power,  it  is  not  for  His 
own  aggrandizement,  but  for  the  security  and  happiness  of 
those  within  the  jurisdiction  of  His  authority.  Esther  was  not 
Raised  to  the  Persian  throne  for  her  own  glory,  but  for  the 
salvation  of  an  oppressed  people.  When  God  endows  a  man 
with  eminent  abilities,  it  is  not  that  he  may  revel  alone  in  the 
pleasures  of  an  intellectual  world,  but  that  he  may  diffuse  the 
influence  of  his  talents  to  elevate  and  bless  others  less  highly 
favored.  He  bestows  riches  upon  some,  not  that  they  may 
possess  the  means  of  debasing  themselves  by  luxury,  while 
others  around  them  are  pinched  with  hunger  and  want,  but 
that  they  may  have  wherewith  to  give  to  them  that  have  need. 
That  Being,  who  hears  the  ravens  when  they  invoke  Him  for 
food,  never  would  have  suffered  the  unequal  distribution  of 
the  means  of  subsistence  among  men,  except  upon  the  prin- 
ciple that  the  full  are  to  impart  to  the  empty.  He  whose 
Providence  extends  to  the  sparrows,  has  not  left  a  multitude, 
created  in  His  own  image,  a  prey  to  indigence  and  want, 
while  He  has  showered  His  blessings  upon  a  few,  without 
intending  that  the  abundance  of  the  one  shall  supply  the 
necessities  of  the  other.  It  would  be  easy  for  Him,  who 
supplied  the  necessities  of  Israel  in  the  wilderness,  to  furnish 
all  His  creatures  with  the  means  of  subsistence,  by  a  direct 
exertion  of  His  creative  power  ;  but  He  has  so  ordered  things 
that  the  poor  we  always  have  with  us.  Some  men  have  not 
the  ability  or  skill  requisite,  either  to  acquire  or  to  husband  the 


BOOK.  4$ 

means  of  a  comfortable  livelihood, — others  who  have  the 
talent  to  acquire,  have  not  the  ability  to  keep,  and  a  few  only 
Jiave  the  talent  of  both  acquiring  and  husbanding.  This 
diversity  is  founded  in  nature,  and  is  an  indication  of  the 
divine  will,  which  binds  one  portion  to  administer  of  their 
fulness  to  the  need  of  another.  This  principle  is  developed  in 
the  irrational  world.  The  clouds  treasure  up  the  waters  not  to 
deck  themselves  with  the  gorgeous  hues  of  the  rainbow,  but 
to  pour  them  out  upon  the  thirsty  earth.  The  moon  receives 
the  rays  of  the  sun,  not  to  absorb  them  in  her  dark  bosom,  but 
to  reflect  them  upon  the  earth  to  cheer  the  solitude  of  night. 
So  the  abundance  of  the  rich  is  bestowed,  not  to  minister  to 
their  lusts,  which  must  be  mortified,  but  to  be  dispensed  like 
the  dew  or  the  rain  to  bless  the  poor  and  the  suffering. 

None  will  deny  the  duty  of  charity  to  be  binding  upon  those 
who  possess  an  abundance.  But  abundance  is  an  equivocal 
term.  The  same  amount  in  one  man's  hands  may  lawfully 
afford  a  smaller  surplus  than  in  another,  for  every  man  has  a 
right  to  use  the  goods  which  God  has  put  into  his  possession  to 
supply  his  own  wants,  and  these  are  greater  or  less,  according 
to  the  station  and  circumstances  in  which  Providence  has 
placed  him.  Every  man  may  be  said  to  have  abundance  if  he 
possess  an  excess  above  the  means  necessary  to  supply  those 
wants  the  existence  of  which  does  not  involve  an  infraction  of 
the  divine  will.  No  man  has  the  right  to  enlarge  his  necessi- 
ties beyond  the  limits  prescribed  by  the  injunction,  "  Make  no 
provision  for  the  flesh  to  fulfil  the  lusts  thereof."  We  have  no 
right  in  this  manner  to  absorb  all  the  means  in  our  possession 
so  that  when  we  hear  the  cry  of  the  needy  we  close  our  hand 
against  them,  and  satisfy  conscience  with  the  plea  that  we 
have  no  more  than  necessary  for  ourselves.  Divine  justice 
measures,  our  duty  of  giving  according  to  the  amount  we 
receive  above  the  demands  of  those  wants  the  gratification  of 
which  is  essential  to  our  well-being.  We  cannot  squander  our 
Master's  goods  upon  the  lusts  which  He  requires  us  to  mortify, 
and  then  when  He  calls  for  the  means  to  bless  His  suffering 
poor,  turn  Him  off  with  the  excuse  that  we  have  nothing  to 
spare.  If  He  allowed  us  to  act  upon  this  principle,  then  we 
might  forever  evade  the  claims_of  the  poor,  by  enlarging  our 


46  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

voluptuousness  and  prodigality,  in  proportion  to  the  increase 
of  the  means  of  sensual  gratification  in  our  possession.  If  the 
surplus  in  our  hands  limits  the  claims  of  the  poor  upon  us, 
then  it  is  obvious  that  infinite  wisdom,  which  is  concerned  for 
the  necessitous,  has  not  left  the  existence  of  that  surplus  wholly 
to  the  contingency  of  human  caprice.  The  thought  is  alike 
reproachful  to  the  divine  wisdom  and  goodness.  There  must, 
therefore,  be  some  rule  governing  the  use  of  the  property  in 
our  hands,  by  which  a  surplus  may  arise,  to  which  the  claims 
of  the  poor  shall  attach.  This  deduction  of  reason  is  con- 
firmed by  the  divine  law.  The  rule  which  secures  the  surplus 
is  embraced  in  all  those  injunctions  of  the  sacred  Scriptures, 
which  require  diligence  in  business,  frugality  in  our  expenses, 
and  the  mortification  of  those  lusts  which  corrupt  the  soul, 
and  which  waste  our  Lord's  goods.  As  the  rule  which  pro- 
duces the  surplus,  is  not  left  to  the  uncertainty  of  human 
caprice,  so  the  rule  governing  its  use  is  not  left  to  the  fitfulness 
of  human  sympathy  and  prejudice:  "If  thy  brother  be  waxen, 
poor  and  fallen  in  decay  with  thee,  then  thou  shalt  relieve  him, 
yea,  though  he  be  a  stranger  or  sojourner,  that  he  may 
Jive  with  thee."  Here  the  rule  is  explicit  and  binds  us  beyond 
#11  evasion.  It  allows  of  no  excuse.  It  enjoins  the  duty  of 
universal  charity.  It  does  not  allow  us  to  confine  our  aid 
jto  our  own  countrymen,  to  the  exclusion  of  those  who  are 
driven  to  our  shores  from  foreign  lands  by  famine  and  oppres- 
sion. It  permits  us  not  to  inquire,  are  they  Americans,  or 
Irish,  or  Germans,  or  French  —  but  only,  are  they  men  —  men 
suffering  from  want  ?  It  invests  humanity  with  the  bond  of 
brotherhood.  The  simple  fact  that  our  brethren  are  fallen  in 
decay  indicates  our  duty,  without  stopping  to  inquire  whether 
they  descended  from  Shem,  Ham,  or  Japheth.  Thus  the  rule 
of  charity  is  not  a  whim,  a  fancy,  a  feeling,  —  it  is  a  principle, 
which  is  to  beget  and  control  both  feeling  and  action,  and 
reaches  to  all  the  sons  and  daughters  of  adversity  within 
the  compass  of  our  beneficence. 

But  men  are  not  left  to  the  mere  force  of  a  naked  rule 
in  the  matter  pf  aiding  the  poor.  Various  incentives  are  urged 
upon  us,  in  divine  revelation,  to  secure  fidelity  in  the  duty. 
And  it  is  a  fact  worthy  of  notice,  that  the  Great  Benefactor 
pf  the  Poor  employs  the  very  reason  which  covetousness 


i*        IL'SBOOK  4"> 

Urges  for  withholding,  as  an  incentive  to  an  enlarged  liberality. 
The  covetous  withhold  through  fear  of  needing  their  surplus* 
to  avert  future   evil.      But  this   uncertainty  respecting  the 
future   is   a   reason  which  He  employs   to  enforce   charity: 
"  Give  a  portion  to  seven  and  also  to  eight,  for  thou  knowest 
not  what  evil  shall  come  upon  the  earth."    Be  liberal ;  do  not 
be  weary  under  the  repeated  calls  upon  thy  charity,  for  thou 
knowest  not  how  soon  a  change  shall  deprive  thee  of  thine 
estate.     The  force  of  this  motive  lies  in  the  fact,  that  what  is- 
given  in  charity  is  deposited  in  the  hands  of  God's  represent- 
atives, and  cannot  be  lost  to  the  giver  by  any  future  reversed 
of  fortune  ;  while  that  which  is  swept  away  from  the  coffers  of 
avarice  by  the  mutation  of  human  affairs,  leaves  no  blessing  in 
reserve.     The  covetous  are  like  the  husbandman,  who,  in  time 
of  sowing,  locks  his  seed  in  his  garner,  instead  of  scattering 
it  broad-cast  upon  the  bosom  of  the  faithful  earth,  which  would 
repay  his  confidence  by  the  return  of  an  hundred-fold.     Per- 
haps the    reader    may   doubt  whether    it    be   strictly  true, 
that,   according  to   the   divine   constitution   of   things,   there 
is  an  established  connection  between  covetousness  and  pov-^ 
erty,  —  liberality  and  riches.     You  may  fix  your  mind  upon  a 
man  who  is  rich,  and,  at  the  same  time,  hard-hearted  and 
oppressive   to  the   poor ;    he  is  as  greedy  as  the   sea,   and 
as  barren  as   the  shore ;   and   yet  wealth  rolls  into  his  pos^ 
session  in  an  unabated  tide.     On  the  other  hand,  you  may 
point  to  one  of  a  large  heart,  who  is  ever  ready  to  divide  his 
last  loaf  with  a  needy  brother,  and  yet  he  is  poor ;   every 
business  enterprise  he  undertakes,  fails.    He  struggles  against 
the  tide  of  adversity  in  vain.     Facts,  you  say,  are  stubborn1 
things,   and  will  not  bend    to    fancy    or   fanaticism.     True*- 
But  the  objection  is  deduced  from  facts  of  too  limited  a  range.- 
It  overlooks  a  peculiarity  in  the  divine  economy  respecting 
temporal  good  and  evil,  by  which  the  connection  is  to  be" 
traced   from    parents   to   their   descendants.     God   has   often 
promised,  to  reward  individuals  ia  a  temporal  sense,  and  the 
promise  has  not  been  fulfilled  to  the  individuals  themselves, 
but  to  their  children ;  and  sometimes  it  has  been  delayed  for 
generations.     He   promised   to   give   the  land  of  Canaan  tos 
Abraham,  but  the  promise  was  not  fulfilled  until  many  gen^ 
erations  after  his  death,  and  then  it  was  accomplished  in 


48  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK; 

favor  of  his  descendants.  Thus,  upon  the  representative 
principle  of  the  divine  economy,  it  was  fulfilled  to  Abra- 
ham. In  investigating  the  developments  of  Providence,  there- 
fore, to  discover  the  connection  which  the  Scriptures  es- 
tablish between  covetousness  and  temporal  disaster,  and  be- 
tween liberality  and  prosperity,  we  are  not  to  confine  bur- 
selves  to  the  harrow  limits  of  one  man's  life,  but  to  extend 
our  examination  along  the  line  of  his  descendants  for  gen- 
erations after  him.  Such  an  examination,  if  we  could  make 
it,  would  undoubtedly  confirm  the  doctrine  obviously  de- 
ducible  from  such  passages  as  the  following:  "He  that  hath 
pity  upon  the  poor  lendeth  unto  the  Lord,  and  that  which 
he  hath  given,  will  He  pay  him  again."  Upon  the  prin- 
ciple stated,  there  is  no  necessity  of  departing  from  a  literal 
interpretation  of  this  passage,  and  others  of  similar  import. 

But,  kind  reader,  I  think  better  of  you  than  to  suppose 
that  you  are  unsusceptible  to  a  higher  motive  than  the  pros- 
pect of  pecuniary  gain.  You  are  capable  of  being  moved 
by  the  happiness  of  a  good  conscience,  and  by  the  ex- 
alted pleasures  of  doing  good.  The  self-approbation  of  de- 
nying ourselves  to  relieve  the  sufferings  of  others,  is  a  larger 
reward  to  an  ingenuous  mind  than  the  grovelling  satisfaction 
which  arises  from  the  mere  increase  of  riches.  The  com- 
placency of  growing  wealth  is  disturbed  by  the  struggles 
of  conscience,  when  the  hand  refuses  to  distribute  of  its 
fulness  to  the  needy.  The  heart  of  one  callous  to  the  cries  bf  a 
Suffering  brother,  feels  itself  unworthy  a  place  in  the  society  of 
the  noble  and  the  generous.  A  sense  of  meanness  embitters 
even  his  sordid  satisfaction,  and  he  is  obliged  to  feel  that  his 
plac6  is  with  the  base  and  the  grovelling.  What  is  the  satisfac- 
tion of  hoarding  ?  It  feeds  an  appetite,  which  torments  us  with 
its  ceaseless  cry,  "  Give,  give"  It  lashes  us  like  slaves,  while  it 
robs  us  of  the  enjoyment  of  the  fruit  of  our  toil.  It  is  as  vora- 
cious as  the  grave,  and  as  unsatisfied  as  death. 

Compare  with  this  the  happiness  of  relieving  human  want; 
This  is  a  work  in  which  we  imitate  God,  and  are  made  parta- 
kers bf  the  divine  joy.  The  Son  of  God  went  about  doing 
good.  He  was  happy  in  feeding  the  hungry,  in  healing  the 
sick,  in  delivering  the  captives,  and  in  preaching  the  Gospel  to 
the  poor. 


49 

How  unalloyed  the  pleasure  of  being  eyes  to  the  blind  — 
feet  to  the  lame  —  to  deliver  the  poor  that  cry,  —  and  to 
cause  the  widow's  heart  to  sing  for  joy.  To  witness  the 
tear  of  gratitude  trickling  down  the  furrowed  cheek  of  want  — 
to  behold  the  smile  of  content  lighting  up  the  pallid  face  of 
sorrow  —  to  receive  the  blessing  of  him  that  is  ready  to  perish 
is  a  richer  reward  than  all  the  sensual  pleasures  to  be  pur- 
chased by  the  boundless  stores  of  sordid  wealth.  It  leaves 
no  sting  behind.  When  in  after  time,  memory  calls  it  back, 
it  comes  laden  with  the  sweet  perfume  of  Paradise  and  re- 
freshes the  soul  with  the  odors  of  pleasing  recollections. 
This  vale  of  tears  furnishes  an  ample  opportunity  for  trea- 
suring up  these  pleasing  recollections.  Everywhere  are 
met  the  haggard  visage  of  want,  and  the  downcast  look 
and  feeble  step  of  penury.  How  blessed  to  lift  the  head 
of  such  with  gratitude,  and  to  strengthen  and  quicken  their 
step  with  joy  by  our  beneficence  ! 

But  of  all  the  objects  of  human  wretchedness,  the  sick 
poor  should  awaken  our  deepest  commisseration  and  hasten 
our  quickest  charity.  To  be  destitute  of  the  necessaries  of 
life,  to  shiver  in  cold  and  nakedness,  and  to  retire,  amid 
the  desolations  of  winter,  to  a  more  desolate  abode,  —  is 
a  calamity  overwhelming  to  the  vigor  of  health.  Add  to  this 
the  helplessness  of  disease,  the  exhaustion  of  nature  over- 
taxed by  exertion  to  avoid  the  scrutinizing  eye  of  charity, 
—  to  all  this  add  the  cries  of  helpless  children  famishing 
by  cold  and  hunger,  and  looking  in  vain  for  bread  to  a 
widowed  mother,  who  is  sickening  under  the  pressure  of 
disease,  and  the  accumulation  of  suffering,  and  sighing  for 
the  deliverance  of  the  grave  —  what  a  scene !  and,  reader 
such  scenes  are  transpiring  near  your  own  door.  Put  on 
your  hat  —  go  out  from  the  circle  of  your  happy  fireside 
and  search  out  these  unhappy  ones,  and  by  kind  words 
and  timely  charities  make  them  feel  that  you  are  their 
friend  by  being  their  helper. 

PRINTERS — Bound  together  in  the  chase  of  affection,  they 
are  always  ready  to  distribute  their  quoins  among  their 
brethren  who  have  had  the  misfortune  fo  run  out  of  sorts. 


50  THE  PRINTER'S  BOOK. 

• 

LORD  BYEON. 

BY     THE     LATE    ALEXANDER     COFFIN,    "THE     BOSTON    BABD.* 
"  His  soul  is  dark  as  Erebus." 


SATAN  his  harp  to  Byron  gave, 
And  said  —  "  Go,  sweep  it  well ; 

Thy  throne,  the  murderer's  reeking  grave ; 
Thy  theme  the  feats  of  hell. 


"  To  misery's  child,  new  misery  add  — 

Tell  him  no  pardon's  given ; 
Drive,  drive  the   shuddering  sinner  mad, 

And  break  his  hold  on  Heaven. 

"  Sweep,  sweep  the  lyre  to  godless  themes  — 

For  vice  a  chaplet  twine; 
Of  horrors  be  thy  waking  dreams  — 

Of  horrors  that  are  mine. 

"  Of  agonies  in  hell  -that  rise  ; 

Of  darkness   that  is  felt; 
Of  reeling  worlds  —  of  sundering  skies  — 

Of  terrors  yet  unspelt. 

"Dark  be  the  picture  —  let  no  light, 

Not  one  dim  ray  illume  ; 
Dark,  dark,  as  never-ending  night, 

As  self-destroyer's  doom! 

"  Man's  hope,  man's  peace,  forever  mar, 

Eclipse  Religion's  sun; 
Tread  out  salvation's  golden  star, 

And  see  thy  work  well  done!" 

He  said;  his  lordship  took  the  lyre, 

And  swept  the  strings  along, 
While  Satan  stole  from  Heaven  the  f  *+., 

And  tuned  the  godless  song. 


THE    PRINTER'S   BOOK.  51 


THE   PRESS, 

PRESENTED,   BY   REQUEST,    TO    THE    PRINTER^    FESTIVAL,   HELD    AT 
ROCHESTER,    N.    Y. 

BY     JAMES     R.     TRUMBULL. 

<"Twas  the  voice  of  the  Press  —  on  the  startled  ear  breaking, 

In  giant-born  prowess,  like  PALLAS  of  old  ; 
'Twas  the  flash  of  intelligence  gloriously  waking 

A  glow  on  the  cheek  of  the  noble  and  bold ; 
And  tyranny's  minions  o'erawed  and  affrighted, 

Sought  a  lasting  retreat  in  the  cloister  and  cowl, 
And  the  chains  which  bound  nations  in  ages  benighted 

Were  cast  to  the  haunts  of  the  bat  and  the  owl." 

WITH  the  day  fthat  gave  birth  to  the  invention  of  Print- 
ing, dawned  the  brighest  era  the  world  ever  saw.  It  broke 
upon  the  midnight  darkness  of  the  fifteenth  century,  like  morn- 
ing from  a  densely  clouded  sky.  Its  course  was  onward, 
destined,  like  the  sun,  to  irradiate  in  its  progress  the  whole 
habitable  globe,  yet  more  silent  than  twilight's  gathering 
tints.  Year  by  year,  it  increased.  Three  centuries  have  roll- 
ed away  since  its  introduction,  and  now  it  is  the  mightiest 
agent  for  weal  or  wo  in  existence. 

The  discovery  of  this  art  ranks  third  among  the  greatest 
events  the  world's  history  records.  Its  superiority  consists 
in  the  immense  difference  between  mind  and  matter.  He 
who  gave  to  the  iron  steed  its  panting  breath,  or  he  who 
drew  down  Heaven's  own  lightning  and  guided  it  along  the 
wiry  track,  claims  no  partnership  in  Fame's  award  with  him 
who  placed  the  printed  page  before  the  mind.  The  inven- 
tions of  others,  in  their  greatest  perfection,  act  only  upon  the 
outward,  the  mortal  man ;  while  that  of  FAUST  operates  upon 
the  divine,  the  immortal,  the  soul.  To  it  belongs  the  task 
of  elevating  the  noblest  part  of  humanity, — the  intellect, — 


52 

that  which  raises  man  above  the  brute,  and  renders  him  but 
"little  lower  than  the  angels."  So  great  are  its  advantages, 
that  it  seems  a  drop  from  the  overflowing  cup  of  God's  good- 
ness, bedewing  the  earth,  yet  so  tainted  by  sinful  human  na" 
ture,  as  to  retain  scarce  an  element  of  its  original  character. 
Never,  since  from  chaos  sprang  this  beautiful  world,  has 
there  existed  a  power  capable  of  such  illimitable  control 
over  the  passions  of  men.  Like  the  irresistible  music  of  the 
fabled  Syrens,  it  lures  the  unsuspecting  upon  the  quicksands 
and  into  the  whirlpools  of  life,  or,  like  the  derm-gods  of  old 
with  brazen  club  uplifted,  attacks  vice  in  its  strong-holds 
crushing  with  resistless  force  the  monster's  hydra  heads. 

Consecrated  by  its  first  efforts  to  the  cause  of  morality 
and  religion,  the  Press  holds  no  second  place  among  the 
great  renovating  agents  of  the  world.  One  of  the  first  books 
printed  was  from  the  manuscript  of  the  amanuenses  of  the 
Holy  Spirit.  Commencing  with  the  greatest  of  books — the 
BIBLE  —  it  has  spread  throughout  the  civilized  world,  alike 
instrumental  in  extending  both  religion  and  vice.  Scarcely  had 
the  invention  found  an  existence,  ere  it  became  mainly  effica- 
cious in  perfecting  one  of  the  most  beneficial  reforms  the  world 
ever  witnessed. 

Whilst  this  noble  art  was  slowly  spreading  itself  through- 
out Europe,  a  little  barefooted  boy  was  seeking  his  darly 
food,  in  a  city  of  Germany,  by  singing  from  house  to  house. 
In  subsequent  years  he  entered  the  monastery.  In  the  se- 
cret recesses  of  the  Dominican  cloister,  was  matured  that 
mind,  whose  powerful  workings,  borne  abroad  upon  the  pin- 
ions of  the  press,  shook  to  its  very  centre  the  throne  of  the 
Caesars,  drove  the  minions  of  Popery  within  the  walls  of 
Rome,  and  shook  defiance  at  them  as  they  stood  cowering 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  Vatican !  The  true  religion  had 
become  defiled.  Its  Omnipotent  Author  raised  for  its  ren- 
ovation, first  the  press,  afterwards  its  operator.  Had  it  not 
been  for  the  aid  of  Printing,  the  dark  clouds  of  Popery,  clos- 
ing above  the  meteor  flash  of  Luther's  terrific  struggle  with 
the  powers  of  darkness,  would  have  hung  with  deeper 
gloom  even  now  about  our  heads.  Dependent  upon  the  im- 
perfect pen  of  the  scribe  for  the  propagation  of  his  writings, 
a  single  bonfire  might  have  destroyed  the  slender  frame- 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  53 

Work  of  the  reformation.  Bat  with  the  re-productive  ener- 
gies of  the  Press  at  its  control,  books  —  Phcenix-like  —  rose 
from  the  ashes  of  those  burned  before,  and  the  Papal  Bull,  con- 
signing the  works  of  Luther  to  the  flames,  became  the  surest 
means  of  their  immortality.  The  results  of  that  glorious 
reformation,  effected  by  the  Press,  while  yet  in  its  infancy, 
will  be  felt  at  time's  remotest  boundary. 

This  great  reformation  was  the  first,  but  not  the  only 
achievement  of  the  Press.  It  has  raised  the  world  from  the 
midnight  of  heathenism  to  the  noon-day  brightness  of  civili- 
zation. "  But  how  are  the  mighty  fallen !"''  This  powerful 
agent,  degraded  from  the  proud  eminence  of  its  youth,  has 
become,  in  its  crowning  manhood,  but  a  servile  instrument 
for  inflaming  man's  lowest  passions. 

The  legitimate  province  of  the  Press  is  the  formation  of 
the  literary  taste  of  the  public.  Whatever  reading  is  re- 
quired by  the  community  at  large,  the  Printer  furnishes-. 
Those  who  wield  the  power  of  the  Press,  possess  the  ability 
to  lead  the  minds  of  the  people  in  their  search  after  truth,  or 
bid  them  grovel  in  the  depths  of  licentiousness  and  crime. 
That  their  aim  should  be  to  elevate  rather  than  depress,  all, 
will  admit;  but  that  the  mass  of  reading  put  forth  at  the 
present  day  is  debasing  in  its  tendency,  is  equally  true. 
Glance  abroad  for  a  moment.  Crime  seems  to  be  increas- 
ing in  a  rapid  ratio.  Every  few  days  chronicle  some  new 
outrage,  present  to  the  public  a  further  infringement  of  law, 
and  show  that  human  passion  is  gaining  a  fearfully  power- 
ful ascendency.  Almost  every  public  print  brings  to  light 
some  new  development  of  human  depravity.  Yet  the  ac- 
counts of  these  cold-blooded  murders,  these  heart-rending  evi- 
dences of  the  wickedness  of  man's  heart,  are  eagerly  sought 
after,  and  devoured  with  avidity  by  the  generality  of  read- 
ers. In  fact,  the  publication  of  such  articles  has  become  one 
item,  and  that  not  a  small  one,  of  subsistence  by  the  newspa- 
per press.  The  tendency  of  it  is  obvious.  In  the  language 
of  another :  "  When  some  monstrous  or  unusual  crime  has 
been  revealed  to  the  public,  it  seldom  passes  without  a  sad 
repetition.  A  link  in  the  chain  of  intellect  is  struck,  and  a 
crime  is  perpetrated  which  else  had  not  occurred."  Thus 


54  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

the  very  reason  urged,  "that  crimes  are  published  to  pre- 
vent repetition,"  in  the  end  accomplishes  that  which  it  sought 
*o  avert ; 

"  'Tis  this  sustains  that   coarse,  licentious   tribe, 
Of  tenth-rate  type-men,  gaping  for  a   bribe, 
That  reptile  race,  with  all  that's  good  at  strife, 
Who  trail  their  slime  through  every  walk  of  life  ; 
Stain  the  white  tablet  where  the  great  man's  name 
Stands  proudly  chiseled  by  the  hand  of  fame ; 
Nor  round  the  sacred  fireside  fear  to  crawl, 
But  drop  their  venom  there  and  poison  all." 

Such,  then,  is  the  present  state  of  the  newspaper  press, 
making  the  everlasting  misery  of  its  readers  a  means  of 
subsistence.  But  there  is  a  greater  and  a  deadlier  evil 
Sin  cloaked  under  the  garb  of  holiness.  Falsehood  dress- 
ed in  the  habiliments  of  truth.  It  is  the  world  of  fiction. 
The  novels  so  eagerly  sought  after  by  all  classes  —  the 
works  of  Sue,  Bulwer,  and  a  host  of  others.  They  stand 
before  the  public  naked  representations  of  the  most  degraded 
states  of  human  society,  with  no  plea  for  their  recommen- 
dation except  that  the  public  taste  requires  them.  Vitiated 
as  public  sentiment  has  become,  it  has  been  brought  to  that 
state  in  a  great  measure  by  such  works,  published  under 
the  guise  of  representing  the  evils  of  society  as  a  warning 
to  others.  Flint  and  steel  when  brought  forcibly  in  con- 
tact, emit  a  spark:  so,  "the  too  close  inspection  of  crime 
may  grow  into  criminality  itself."  "  The  object  of  the  suc- 
cessful novel  writer  is  to  make  a  saleable  book,  and  the 
cant  about  the  amelioration  of  society  is  merely  a  trick  of 
authors,  whereby  they  hope  to  add  a  degree  of  dignity  to 
their  pages  that  shall  gild  the  pill  of  their  licentiousness." 

Besides  the  novels  of  foreigners,  we  have  authors  of  the 
same  stamp  among  ourselves,  capable  of  accomplishing 
even  more  evil  in  the  limited  sphere  in  which  they  move  than 
their  more  gifted  cotemporaries.  The  novelettes  of  Ingra- 
ham,  what  are  they,  as  a  general  thing,  but  memoirs  of 
ft  her  whose  steps  take  hold  on  hell  ?"  Year  after  year  the 
Press  is  sowing  such  trash  broadcast  over  the  land.  The 
public  will  feast  upon  the  demoralizing  pamphlets  of  Ingra- 


THE     PRINTER    8    BOOK. 

ham,  or  the  splendid  conceptions  of  the  more  gifted  Sue, 
and  laying  them  aside,  turn  to  the  newly  printed  Journal, 
yet  damp,  to  gloat  over  horrid  tales  of  seduction,  murder, 
and  crime  of  every  description.  Is  such  a  proper  state  of 
society  ?  Is  this  the  grand  mission  of  this  greatest  o-f  agen- 
cies ?  No !  the  watchman  has  come  down  from  his  tower 
and,  mingling  with  the  giddy  throng,  is  hurrying  them  on. 
to  ruin  and  destruction : 

"  All  are  not  such !     Oh,  no,  there  are,  thank  Heaven, 

A  noble  troop  to  whom  the  trust  is  given, 

Who  all,  unbribed,  on  Freedom's  ramparts  stand 

Faithful  and  firm,  bright  wardens  of  the  land 

By  them  the  Press  still  lifts  its  arms  abroad, 

To  guide  all-curious  man  along  life's  road; 

To  cheer  young  Genius,  Pity's  tear   to   start, 

In  Truth's  bold  cause  to  rouse  each  fearless  heart." 

Yet  a  reformation  great  as  that  commenced  by  the  hum- 
ble son  of  the  miner  of  Mansfeldt,  is  required  to  purge  our 
land  from  this  evil.  The  renovation  of  the  church  was 
brought  about  by  one  of  its  most  devoted  followers,  and 
who  more  appropriate  to  undertake  this  work  than  the 
Printers  themselves  ?  Or  what  time  better  calculated  to  act 
on  the  subject  than  the  birth-day  of  the  Printer,  Philosopher 
and  Statesman  you  celebrate  to-day?  Why  wait  longer? 
We  see  men  shot  down  in  cold  blood.  Murder  palpable  as 
sunlight  is  committed,  and  yet  the  law  acquits  the  perpe- 
trator, and  the  people  shout  and  clap  their  hands  when  the 
judge  proclaims  the  murderer  free,  and  he  goes  forth  un- 
punished to  clasp  his  bloody  hands  with  theirs.  Wherefore 
is  this  ?  Because  public  opinion  will  not  punish  seduction 
as  a  crime.  Yet  the  very  instance  cited  had  its  origin  in 
the  demoralizing  reading  of  the  present  day.  To  allow  the 
Press  to  put  forth  such  works  as  are  daily  being  published, 
and  refuse  the  aid  of  law  for  the  punishment  of  crime,  result- 
ing from  such  reading,  is  like  prohibiting,  by  the  statute, 
physicians  from  attempting  the  cure  of  fever,  and  at  the  same 
time  filling  the  land  with  large  bodies  of  stagnant  water, 
upon  whose  malaria  fever  rides  with  fearful  speed. 


56  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

FELLOW  PRINTERS  !  let  us  put  our  hands  to  this  work. 
We  may  do  much  to  remedy  the  defect,  if  not  eventually 
wholly  to  remove  it.  But  it  is  a  work  that  requires  time 
days,  weeks,  months,  years.  Let  us  then  be  up  and  doing. 


SONNET. -PORTRAIT  OF  A  LADY. 

BY     HORACE     GREELEY. 

THE  blissful  June  of  life !    I  love  to  gaze 

On  its  sweet  wealth  of  ripening  loveliness, 
And  lose  the  thought  that  o'er  my  saddening  days, 

Grim   Care  has  woven  clouds  which  will  depress, 
In  spite  of  stoic   pride  and  stern  resolve : 

Beauty  like  this  the  waste  of  life  redeems; 
'Round  it — their  sun — the  coldest  hearts  revolve, 

Warm'd  back  to  youth  and  gladdened  by  its  beams. 
But,  lady!    in  that  mild,   soul-speaking  glance, 

Those  lustrous  orbs,  returning  heaven  its  hue, 
I    greet  an  earlier  friend— forgive  the  trance? 

'Tis  Nature  only,  imaged  here  so  true 
That,  briefly,  I  forgot  the  Painter's  art, 

And  hailed  the  presence  of  a  Queenly  Heart. 

ITALY. 

BY     N.     P.     WILLIS. 

A  CALM  and  lovely  Paradise 

Is  Italy  for  minds  at  ease  : 
The  sadness  of  its   sunny   skies 

Weighs  not  upon  the  lives  of  these. 
The  ruined  aisle,  the  crumbling  fane, 

The  broken  column,  vast  and  prone, 
It  may  be  joy — it  may  be  pain  — 

Amid  such  wrecks  to  walk  alone ! 
The  saddest  man  will  sadder  be, 

The  gentlest  lover  gentler  there, 
As  if  whate'er  the  spirit's  key, 

Is  strengthened  in  that  solemn  air. 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK,  57 


THE   BRIGHT   SPIRIT  LAND. 

BY    THE    LATE    WILLIAM    B.    MARSH. 

THE  bright  Spirit  Land!  oh,  where  does  it  lie? 
In  the  untold  depths  of  the  glorious  sky  — 
Where  the  clouds  are  all  tinged  with  a  roseate  hue, 
And  the  stars  ever  float  in  a  sea  of  blue  — 
Is  it  there,  the  bright  Spirit  Land? 

And  do  flowerets  breathe  on  the  passing  gale, 
And  beings  celestial  their  odors  inhale, 
While  golden-wing'd  birds  flit  the  bowers  among, 
And  gladden  the  air  with  their  joyous  song? 
Do  broad  rivers  sweep  with  resistless  tide, 
And  whispering  rills  through  the  deep  valleys  glide; 
Do  green  forests  wave,  and  huge  mountains  rise 
Till  their  snow-cover'd  peaks  seem  to  blend  with  the  skies ; 
And  the  many-toned  voices  of  nature  combin'd, 
Come  like  angels  of  peace  to  the  care-stricken  mind  — 
Is  it  thus  in  the  bright  Spirit  Land? 

Or  is  it   amid  the  old  ocean  caves, 
Where  mariners  sleep  in  their  coral  graves, 
As  the  angry  wind  howls,  and  the  surge  beats  high, 
And  the  storm-spirit  chants  their  lullaby? 
Is  it  there,  where  the  water-nymph  ever  is  seen, 
As  she  waves  in  the   caverns  her  tresses  green, 
Or  marks  the  wild  billows  rise  and  fall 
As  she  lightly  trips  through  the  sparry  hall — 
Is  it  there,  that  bright  Spirit  Land? 

Alas!  who  shall  fathom  His  ways,  most  high, 
Whose  throne  is  revealed  to  no  mortal  eye ; 
Or  lift  the  dim  veil  and  in  rapture  ,tell 
The  pilgrim  of  earth  where  his  spirit  shall  dwell, 
When,  freed  from  its  cumbersome  load  of  clay, 
It  shall  soar  to  the  regions  of  endless  day? 

7 


58  THE  HUNTER'S  BOOK. 

Or  whether  amid  the  bright  lamps  of  heaven, 
That  shine  o'er  our  heads  in  the  silent  even; 
Or  the  nobler  orbs  that  in  grandeur  roll, 
Proclaiming  His  glory  from  pole  to  pole ; 
Or  in  far-off  climes,  where  no  mortal  hath  trod; 
The  spirit  shall  live  in  the  presence  of  God! 
There  the  loved  and  lost  of  this  earth  shall  be  found, 
And  heaven's  high  arch  with  their  praises  resound, 
As  they  join  their  rapt  hearts  and  in  gratitude  sing 
Loud  paeans  of  joy  to  their  Saviour  and  King. 
There  sin  shall  be  finished  and  tears  cease  to  flow, 
And  sorrow  and  parting  no  more  shall  we  know, 
But  with  prophets,  and  priests,  and  martyrs  of  old, 
Rejoice  evermore  as  new  glories  unfold 
From  the  God  of  our  being  —  oh !  hasten  the  rest 
Of  Eternity's  year  'mong  the  ransom'd  and  blest: 
I  would  fly  to  that  bright  Spirit  Land. 


THE  INDIAN  GIRL. 

BY    JOHN    NEAL. 

FAREWELL,  farewell!  the  night  wind  blows 
A  shadow  o'er  thy  face  —  farewell ! 

The  sun  is  down  —  the  lilies  close ; 

The  water  all  about  us  flows 

More  darkly,  with  a  mournful  swell. 

Nay,  do  not  weep — our  love  will  be, 

In  trial,  sorrow,  or  distress, 
For  ever,  dear,  a  joy  to  me, 
A  comfort  all  thy  life  to  thee, 

Brown  beauty  of  the  wilderness ! 

Behold  the  waters — all  in  flower, 

With  lilies  that  in  safety  dwell: 
Be  thou  like  them;  thou  hast  the  power, 
Whene'er  the  blue  skies  o'er  thee  lower, 
Shut  up  thy  heart,  d«ar  —  fare  thee  well. 


THE    PRINTER'S    BO  OK.  59 


CONSOLATORY. 


BY    LYMAN    W.    HALL. 


DARKLY  life's  storm-cloud  o'er  thee   now  is  hanging, 

And  the   fierce   tempest  lingers   o'er   thy  way; 
No  more   does   Joy,  her   silver-trumpet  twanging, 

Light  her   gay  smiles  throughout   the  sunny   day. 
Visions   of  happiness  no   more   are   glowing 

Through  the  bright   vista  of  an  opening  morn, 
And  evening   zephyrs   in  their  blandness  blowing, 

Seem  dirge-like  now  to  hearts  so  crushed  and  torn. 


IL 

The  loves  of  earth,  how  swiftly  do  they  perish, 

Unclasping  fond  affections  tenderest  tie  ; 
The  dearest  objects  that  the  heart  can  cherish, 

Pass  like  the  tintings  of  a  summer  sky. 
The  budding  beauty  of  the  opening  flower, 

Casts  its  rich  fragrance  on  the  balmy  air, 
Claims  admiration  for  a  transient  hour, 

Then  withers,  emblem  of  the  young  and  fair. 


m. 

Why  should  we  mourn,  when  youth  yields  up  existence, 

To  join  the  train  triumphant  of  the  blest  ? 
Brilliant  and  glorious  in  unmeasured  distance, 

Gleams  the   empyrean  of  their   final  rest. 
Death's  bolts,  on  every  hand,  so  rudely  dashing, 

But  usher  spirits  to   a  world  of  bliss  ; 
Why,  when  the   light  of  joy  on   high  is  flashing, 

Why  should  we  hold  them  in  a  world  like  this  ? 


60  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 


IV. 

Dust   unto  dust  —  that  loved  form  now  in  sadness, 

Is  yielded  to  the  silence  of  the  tomb ; 
A  requiem  wail  gives  place  to  notes  of  gladness, 

And  funeral  weeds   spread  forth  a  deep'ning  gloom. 
Tears  may  descend  —  the  crystal  fountain  gushing, 

The  bitter  anguish  of  the  heart  may  tell ; 
E'en  "  Jesus  wept,"  when  grief  his  soul  was  crushing, 

And  with  like  grief  thy  bosom  too  may  swell. 

v. 

In  the  fair  morning  of  her  youthful  being, 

E'en  in  the   promise  of  a  gladsome  day, 
Like  a  scared  bird  before  a  tempest  fleeing, 

Stainless,   she  hied  her  from  life's  storm  away  — 
Briefly  her  light  step  pressed  earth's  budding  flowers  — 

Briefly  to  childhood's  home  she  lent  a  grace  — 
Swift  o'er  her  transient  way  danced  happy  hours, 

Like  shadows  fleeting  o'er  the  dial's  face. 


VI. 

In  beauty  robed,  immortal  and  unending, 

View  her,  thy  guardian  in  the   upper   skies  — 
Joyous,  before   the  radiant  throne  now  bending, 

Anon,  on  love's  light  wings  to  you  she  flies  — 
Hovers,  on  angel-mission,  o'er  thy  dwelling. 

Drops  a  fond  tear  —  if  spirits  bless'd  can  weep  — 
To  see  deep  anguish  in  thy  bosom  swelling ; 

And  anxious   vigil,   fails   not  there  to  keep. 

VII. 

Dry  then,  fond  mourner,  dry  thy  tears   of  sorrow, 

An  angel-spirit  you  to  God  have  given; 
Wait  through  the  day,   there  comes  a  bright  to-morrow, 

When  you  shall  join   her  in  a  joyous  heaven. 
Thy  passing  joys  on  earth  have  only  withered, 

To  bloom  the   brighter  in   a  fairer  clime  — 
There   shall  the   cherished  loves  of  earth   be  gathered, 

And  joys  beyond  the  reach   of  thought   sublime. 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  61 

VIII. 

Earth's  dingy  clouds  are  quickly  onward  rolling, 

Like  storm-mists,  driven  by  the  tempest's  wrath,  — 
On  every  hand,  the  solemn  bells   are   tolling, 

And  wrecks  and  fragments  strew  life's  broken  path, 
Serene,  beyond  this    vale   of  fear  and  quaking ; 

Secure  from  all  that  we  now  feel  or  fear, 
Where  hopes   ne'er   perish,  where   no  hearts   are   aching, 

Dwell  our   loved  ones,  in  joy's  seraphic  sphere. 

IX. 

While  the  swift  moment  hastes  our  sun  to  setting, 

And  cloudy  racks  obscure  the  genial  ray, 
The  sorrowing  past,  in  blissful  hope   forgetting, 

We'll   leave  for  glories  of  the  future  day. 
Earth  hath  grown  cold,  while  many  a  garnered  treasure, 

Safe,  in  the  far-off  store-house  of  the  sky, 
Yields  a  rich  promise  of  eternal  pleasure, 

And  bids  the  tear-drop  from  the  weeping  eye. 


Sadly  the  cypress-wreath  for  all  is  weaving, 

For  life's  a  mixture  but   of  joys   and  tears  ; 
Smiles   light  the   eye,   e'en  when  the   bosom's   heaving 

With  anguish  felt,  or  sorrow  that  it  fears. 
The  harp  of  life  is  like  a  lute-string  broken, 

Its  wasting  cadence   grates  along  the    air; 
Fading  from  time  is  every  lovely  token, 

Gone  are  the  loved,  the  young,  the  pure,  the  fair. 


XI. 

We'll  meet  them  in  that  sphere,  where  flowers  are  springing 

Perennial,  in  the  azure   fields  of  light; 
Where  spirits  blest,  from  star  to  star  are  winging, 

Joyous  and  sparkling,  their  angelic  flight  — 
The  loved  of  earth,  death  can  but  briefly  sever, 

These  rolling  orbs  but  haste  the  blissful  day, 
When  fading  hopes  and  parting  sighs  forever, 

Shall  yield  to  joys  that  never  can   decay. 


62  THE 


TO  A  WAVE. 


BY    THE    LATE    JAMES    0.    ROCKWELL. 


LIST!   thou   child  of  wind   and    sea, 

Tell  me  of  the  far  off  deep, 
Where  the  tempest's  wind  is  free, 

And  the  waters  never  sleep! 
Thou  perchance  the  storm  hast  aided, 

In  its  work  of  stern  despair, 
Or  perchance  thy  hand  hath  braided, 

In  deep   caves,   the   mermaid's   hair. 

Wave !   now   on   the  golden   sands, 

Silent   as   thou  art,   and  broken, 
Bear'st  thou  not   from   distant   strands 

To  my  heart  some  pleasant  token? 
Tales   of  mountains   of  the   south, 

Spangles   of  the  ore   of  silver ; 
Which   with  playful   singing  mouth, 

Thou  hast  leaped  on  high  to  pilfer? 

Mournful  wave !   I   deemed   thy  song 

Was   telling   of  a   mournful  prison, 
Which,   when  tempests   sweep   along, 

And  the   mighty  winds   were   risen, 
Foundered   in   the   ocean's   grasp, 

While   the   brave   and   fair  were   dying, 
Wave!    didst   mark  a   white  hand   clasp 

In   thy   folds   as  thou   wert  flying? 

Hast  thou  seen  the  hallowed  rock 
Where  the  pride  of  kings  reposes, 

Crowned  with  many  a  misty  lock, 

Wreathed  with  sapphire  green  and  roses  ? 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  63 

Or   with  joyous   playful  leap, 

Hast-  thou  been  a  tribute   flinging, 
Up  that   bold    and  jutty   steep, 

Pearls  upon  the  south   wind  stringing? 

Faded   wave !    a  joy   to   thee, 

Now  thy  flight   and   toil   are  over  I 
O   may  my   departure   be 

Calm   as   thine,   thou   ocean   rover ! 
When  this  soul's  last  joy  or  mirth 

On   the   shore   of  time   is   driven  — 
Be  its  lot  like   thine,   on   earth, 

To  be  lost  away  in  heaven ! 


THE  HUMAN  VOICE. 


BY     GEORGE   P.    MORRIS. 

WE   all  love  the  music  of  sky,  earth  and  sea  — 

The  chirp   of  the  cricket — the  hum  of  the  bee  — 

The  wind-harp  that  swings  from  the  bough  of  the  tree— 

The   reed  of  the   rude   shepherd  boy: 
All  love  the  bird-carols  when  day  has  begun, 
When  rock  fountains  gush  into  song  as  they  run, 
When  the  stars  of  the  morn  sing  their  hymns  to  the  sun, 

And  hilla  clap  their  hands  in  their  joy. 

All  love  the  invisible  lutes  of  the  air  — 

The  chords  that   vibrate  to  the  hands  of  the  fair  — 

Whose  minstrelsy  brightens  the  midnight  of  care, 

And  steals   to   the  heart  like  a  dove  : 
But  even  in  melody  there  is  a  choice, 
And,  though  we   all  in  her  sweet  numbers  rejoice, 
There's  none  thrills  the  soul  like   the  tones  of  the  voice7 

When  breathed  by  the  beings  wo  love. 


64  THEPRINTER'SBOOK. 

WOMAN. 

BY    THE    LATE     JOHN    J.    ADAMS. 

FEMALE  loveliness  cannot  be  clothed  in  a  more  imposing 
garb  than  that  of  knowledge.  A  female,  thus  arrayed,  is 
one  of  the  most  interesting  objects  of  creation.  Every  eye 
rests  upon  her  with  pleasure.  The  learned  and  wise  of  the 
opposite  sex  delight  in  her  society,  and  affix  to  her  character 
respect  and  veneration.  Ignorance  and  folly  stand  reproved 
in  her  presence,  and  vice,  in  her  bold  career,  shrinks  abash- 
ed at  her  gaze.  She  moves,  the  joy  —  the  pride  —  the  delight 
of  the  domestic  circle.  She  excites  the  praise  —  the  admira- 
tion of  the  world. 

A  female,  thus  armed  —  thus  equipped  —  is  prepared  to 
encounter  evejy  trial  which  this  uncertain  state  may  bring. 
To  rise  with  proper  elation  to  the  pinnacle  of  fortune,  or 
sink  with  becoming  fortitude  into  the  abyss  of  poverty. 
To  attain,  with  a  cheerful  serenity,  the  heights  of  bliss  or 
descend,  with  patient  firmness,  to  the  depths  of  woe. 


PRINTING. 

THE  Art  that  shall  hand  down  to  latest  posterity,  to  innu- 
merable millions  yet  unborn  of  God,  the  thoughts  of  men 
living  now ;  of  men  who  lived  centuries  since,  they  defy  time, 
and  the  printed  manuscript  of  those  men  shall  live,  too  full  of 
soul  to  be  put  in  the  same  grave  with  their  perishable  bodies. 
It  was  a  bright  thought  of  that  author,  who,  in  his  dying 
moments,  was  just  able  to  ask  if  the  proof  of  his  last  work 
was  correct,  all  ^corrected  !  Yes,  all.  Then  I  shall  have  a 
complete  edition  in  glory. 


THE  PRESS  : — As  darkness  reveals  to  the  human  eye  unseen 
worlds,  so  the  Art  of  Printing  has  opened  channels  of  com- 
munication which,  if  brought  under  a  sanctified  influence,  will 
bless  the  latest  generation. 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  65 

*  *Ks4r(3  tootbnoy/  "  edl  til     .oaclq  :«nilfowb 

*B  bofloeioq   eJi   oioill  ,YRWK   Iil'id  otifiw«   -ml 
let  T^tr.rl  tuiliiv  t^iorni     /i9  V3  -jo)  boiDviflg 

THOUGHTS. 


BY    WILLIAM    W.    HOLDEN. 

"BuT  little  reck'st  thou,  oh,  my  child! 
Of  travail   on  life's  thorny  wild ! 
Ah,  little  reck'st   thou   of  the   scene 
So   darkly   wrought   that  spreads   between 
The   little   all  we   here    can  find, 
And  the  dark  mystic  sphere  behind!" 

OUR  life's  young  hours  !  How  beautiful !  What  joys  !  — 
what  unmixed  pleasures  throng  their  rosy  bowers  !  They 
reck  not  of  the  future  —  the  present  is  ever  unfolding  new 
dreams  and  images,  and  we  are  happy.  And  when  their  hours 
have  overpast,  and  the  stern  trials  of  manhood  come  on,  what 
unforgotten  glories  have  they  treasured  up  for  us  !  We  re- 
member the  theatres  and  haunts  of  our  young  hours ;  we  re- 
member the  silver  fountain,  the  flowery  meadow,  where  we 
loved  to  play  the  live-long  day ;  and  the  lone  wild  trees  and 
mountains  we  have  watched  and  wondered  at  through  the  long 
hours  of  midnight.  And  we  would  not  forget  them. 

But  manhood's  hour  must  come  on.  The  visions  so  brightly 
beaming  before  us  in  the  hope  of  childhood's  eye  have  fa- 
ded—  the  scoff  and  blight,  and  reverse  of  time's  revolutions 
must  now  pass  over  us.  And  who  may  look  unmoved  upon 
the  wrecks  of  time  ?  Roll  back  its  billowy  tide,  and  gaze 
upon  them.  There  we  see  the  tyrant  monarch,  whose  iron 
tread  hath  been  over  honor  and  innocence  —  here  we  see  the 
death  of  infancy,  the  toil  and  struggle  of  the  world's  best  and 
most  virtuous.  Shall  we  sorrow  for  either.  We  may  not. 
We  should  rather  lift  up  our  spirits  to  the  final  Arbiter,  No 
change  of  fortune,  no  prostration  of  virtue,  no  triumph  of 
power,  hath  escaped  His  eye  —  not  a  sigh,  nor  a  song  of  earth 
but  hath  trembled  amid  the  mysterious  realms  of  His  far-off 

8 


06  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

dwelling  place.  In  the  "wondrous  cycles"  of  Eternity  shall 
the  world's  history  be  spread  out  If  here  tyrannic  vice  hath 
for  awhile  held  sway,  there  its  poisoned  sceptre  shall  be 
shivered  for  ever.  If  here,  virtue  hath  fallen,  there  her  golden 
temple  shall  rest  upon  the  unshaken  firmness  of  Heaven's 
adamantine  pillars  ;  and  her  earthly  flowerets  that  bloomed  for 
a  moment  and  departed,  will  there  know  no  Autumn,  no  cold 
winds  nor  deadly  sunlight.  If  here,  the  youth  cast  aside  am- 
bition, and  the  littleness  of  earthly  glory,  there  the  spirit's 
tenement,  immortalized,  may  wear  the  vestments  of  an  un- 
fading honor,  and  pluck  amaranthine  chaplets  from  the  stars 
that  perpetually  sweep  on  beneath  him. 

There's  a  light  that  encircles  that  beautiful  land ; 

Yet  the  sun  hath  ne'er  shone,  nor  the  moon  gone  o'er 

Its  diamond  walls  or  its  golden  shore  — 
For  its  realm  ia  untouch'd  by  Time's   cold  wand. 

There  are  loud,  strange  tones  in  that  beautiful  land  ; 
Yet  they  tell  not  of  sorrow  nor  sin   as  they  go 
O'er   its  vales  and  o'er  fountains  that  evermore  flow  — 

For  they  swell  from  a  deathless  band. 

We   shall   meet   in   that   beautiful   land! 

There  no   pledges   of  earth   may   exist   as   a   token 
That  our  friendship  and  love  should  be  ever  unbroken  — 

But  the  wave  of  pure  friendship  shall  float  o'er  that  clime, 

And  its  wreath  of  mild  glory  each  brow  shall  entwine  — 

When  we  meet  in  that  beautiful  land ! 


THE    AMERICAN    FLAG.    , 

FAMED    Banner   of  the  Free  —  the   eagle   came 
From    his   far  dwelling,   'midst   the   eternal   hills, 
To   rest   upon    thee  —  and   the   radiant   stars 
Caught   in   their  living   lustre   from   the   heavens, 
Flash   brightly   round   him,    and   the    ages   wear, 
No   sunlit    pinion   from   his   regal   wing. 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  67 


THE  PILGRIMAGE  TO  MANHOOD. 

' 


BY    HORACE   GREELEY. 


WE  are  in  no  danger  of  estimating  too  highly  the  extraordi- 
nary character  of  the  age  in  which  our  lot  has  been  cast,  and 
of  the  influences  by  which  we  are  surrounded.  The  Present 
is  the  proper,  theme  of  Poetry,  the  fitting  scene  of  Romance. 
Whoev,er  shall  even  faintly  realize  the  mighty  events,  the  stir- 
ring impulses,  the  lofty  character  of  our  time,  is  in  no  danger 
of  passing  through  life  grovelling  and  unobservant  as  the  dull 
beast  that  crops  the  thistles  by  the  wayside.  The  Past  has  its 
lessons,  doubtless,  and  well  is  it  for  those  who  master  and  heed 
them ;  but,  were  it  otherwise,  the  Present  has  themes  enough 
of  ennobling  interest  to  employ  all  our  faculties  —  to  engross 
all  our  thoughts,  save  as  they  should  contemplate  the  still 
grander,  vaster  Hereafter.  Do  they  talk  to  us  of  Grecian  of 
Roman  heroism  ?  They  say  well ;  but  Genius  died  not  with 
Greece ;  and  Heroism  has  scarcely  a  recorded  achievement 
which  our  own  age  could  not  parallel.  What  momentary 
deed  of  reckless  valor  can  compare  with  the  life-long  self-devo- 
tion of  the  Missionary  in  some  far  cluster  of  Indian  lodges,"  or 
Tartar  huts,  cut  off  from  society,  from  sympathy,  and  from 
earthly  hope?  How  easy,  how  common  to  dare  death  with 
Alexander !  how  rare  to  live  nobly  as  Washington,  and  feel 
no  ambition  but  that  of  doing  good  1  Take  the  efforts  for  the 
elevation  of  the  African  race  in  our  day — ill  directed  as  some 
of  them  appear  —  and  yet  Antiquity  might  well  be  challenged 
to  produce  any  thing  out  of  the  sphere  of  Sacred  History  half 
so  heroic  and  divine.  Let  us,  then,  waste  little  time  in  looking 
back  to  earlier  ages  for  high  examples  and  deeds  that  stir 
the  blood.  Let  us  not  idly  imagine  that  the  Old  World  em- 
bosoms scenes  and  memorials  dearer  to  the  lover  of  Truth,  of 
Freedom,  and  of  Man,  than  those  of  our  own  clime.  Let  us 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

rebel  alike  the  braggart's  vain-glory  and  self-disparagement 
of  degeneracy ;  yet  cherish  the  faith  that  nowhere  are  there 
purer  skies,  more  inspiring  recollections,  or  more  magnificent 
landscapes  than  those  in  which  our  own  green  land  rejoices. 
Where  shall  the  patriot  pulse  beat  high  if  not  on  Bunker  Hill 
or  Saratoga  ?  Where  has  nature  displayed  her  grandeur  if  not 
in  the  great  valley  of  the  Father  of  Waters  ?  Are  not  the 
scenes  of  man's  noblests  efforts,  of  God's  rarest  earthly  handi- 
work, all  around  and  among  us  ?  Have  /  not  listened  to  the 
roar  of  Niagara  and  stood  by  the  grave  of  Mount  Vernon  ? 

Let  me  not  be  accused  of  dwelling  too  long  on  the  visible 
and  the  palpable  —  on  external  Nature  when  my  theme  re- 
gards internal  Man.  No  reflecting  mind  can  hesitate  to  admit 
that  to  a  great  extent  the  circumstances  shape  the  man.  None 
of  us  would  have  difficulty  in  pointing  out  among  his  circle  one 
at  least  who  would  be  a  Catholic  at  Rome,  a  Turk  ( if  born 
such  )  at  Constantinople,  an  idolater  at  Pekin  —  would  it  be  as 
easy  to  instance  one  who  would  not  be  thus  moulded  ?  As  with 
the  highest  of  all  human  affirmations  —  Faith  in  God  —  so  with 
our  lower  deeds  and  developments.  All  know  that  the  moun- 
taineer is  more  hardy  than  the  dweller  in  the  vales  beneath  — 
the  native  of  the  rugged  climate  than  he  who  is  ripined  beneath 
an  equatorial  sun.  Have  not  the  raw  breezes  from  snow-clad 
heights  been  ever  held  an  inspiration  to  the  soul  of  Liberty  ? 
Is  not  the  sailor  oftcnest  born  beside  the  heaving  expanse  which 
he  chooses  for  his  home  ?  I  would  not  explain  all  difference  of 
character  or  capacity  by  the  action  of  extraneous  influences  on 
the  immortal  spirit  —  the  organs  of  the  Phrenologist,  the  decree 
of  the  Fatalists,  the  circumstances  of  the  Owenite  —  and  yet  I 
shrink  from  the  temerity  of  setting  bounds  to  their  sway. 
Though  we  speak  of  the  inscrutable  ways  of  the  Deity,  we 
accuse  only  our  own  imperfectness  of  vision.  The  eye  of 
Faith,  and  not  less  that  of  Reason,  recognizes  in  all  His  ways 
regular  successions  of  effect  to  cause,  from  the  warming  into 
life  of  an  insect  to  the  creation  of  a  world.  If  then  we 
read  that  the  son  and  heir  of  a  wise  and  good  ruler,  proved  a 
weak  yet  bloody  tyrant,  let  us  not  rashly  infer  the  procession 
of  Evil  from  Good.  We  have  yet  to  be  assured  that  the  good 
king  was  an  equally  good  father  —  that  pressing  cares  of  state, 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  69 

or  possibly  some  defect  of  character,  did  not  incline  him,  to 
neglect  the  great  duty  of  training  up  his  son,  and  imbuing  him 
with  the  seeds  of  all  moral  good.  So  with  the  reprobate  and 
outcast  scion  of  an  exemplary  house  —  we  say,  indeed,  that  his 
opportunities  of  good  were  equal  to  those  of  his  brethren,  and 
his  temptations  to  wrong  no  greater  than  theirs  ;  but  how  do 
we  know  ?  It  were  well  for  the  safety  of  our  ready  and  confi- 
dent assertion  if  we  had  first  assured  ourselves  that  no  inhe- 
rent vice  of  physical  organization  —  no  bodily  defect  preceding 
the  susceptibility  to  a  moral  impression  —  no  silent,  unnoted 
but  yet  potent  agency,  has  produced  the  disparity  we  observe 
and  lament,  before  we  had  so  positively  concluded  that  men 
may  gather  grapes  of  thorns  or  figs  of  thistles. 

Yet  let  us  not  hotly  and  heedlessly  pursue  this  truth  till  we 
lose  ourselves  and  it  in  the  mazes  of  error,  the  opposite  of  that 
we  would  dissipate.  There  is  very  much  of  human  attainment 
dependent  on  circumstances;  let  us  not  forget  how  much  also— 
I  will  not  say  vastly  more  —  depends  on  essential  Man.  There 
is  a  deplorably  immense  multitude  who  live  but  to  eat  boun- 
teously and  daintily  —  with  whom  the  sum  of  life  is  practical- 
ly to  compass  the  largest  amount  of  rich  viands  and  gaudy 
trappings  with  the  smallest  outlay  of  effort  or  perseverance  to 
procure  them  —  this  mass  will  be  at  Rome  Romans,  at  Moscow 
Russians,  and  nothing  more.  There  will  be  some  small  varie- 
ties or  shadings  of  individual  character,  calculated  to  gratify  by 
their  study  the  minute  curiosity  of  an  entomologist,  and  inte- 
resting to  him  only.  But  let  one  of  these  human  ephemera  be 
awakened,  however  casually  or  blindly,  to  the  higher  impulses 
the  nobler  ends  of  our  Being,  and  he  is  instantly  transferred  to 
ar different  world — or  rather  the  world  which  surrounds  him 
takes  on  a  different  aspect,  and  what  before  was  bleak  waste, 
or  dull  expanse  of  wooded  height  and  low  herbage,  assumes  a 
deep  spiritual  significance.  To  his  unfolding,  wondering  soul, 
Nature  is  no  more  a  Poet's  rhapsody,  a  Chemist's  generaliza- 
tion, but  a  living  presence,  a  solemn  yet  cheering  companion- 
ship. No  matter  whether  he  be  in  social  position,  a  peer  or  a 
peasant,  by  birth  Danish  or  Egyptian,  one  glance  at  the  world 
within  has  placed  him  with  those  whose  countrymen  and  breth- 
ren are  all  Mankind.  He  has  no  need  now  to  change  his  daily 


70  THE 

pursuit  or  outward  condition,  for  he  has  risen  by  inevitable 
force  to  an  atmosphere  of  serenity,  above  the  influence  of 
merely  external  influences  and  petty  limitations.  He  has  not 
toilsomely  but  naturally  attained  a  condition  in  which  the  soul 
no  longer  blindly  pants  for  eminence  or  homage,  but  realizes 
intensely  that  nobly  to  Do  for  the  sake  of  nobly  Doing  and  its 
intrinsic  results  —  rightly  to  Be  for  the  sake  of  rightly  Being — 
discarding  "  the  lust  to  shine  or  rule,"  is  the  true  end  of  life. 

And  here  let  me  hazard  the  remark  that  our  unquietness,  our 
ant-hill  bustle  is  the  severest  criticism  on  our  present  intellectual 
condition  and  efforts.  True  greatness  may  be  said  to  resemble 
the  water  in  some  perennial  fountain,  which  rises  ever  and 
spontaneously,  because  in  communication  with  some  exhaust- 
less  reservoir  more  capacious  and  higher  than  itself;  while 
the  effort  to  be  great  is  like  the  stream  forced  up  by  some  en- 
gine or  hydrant,  which  towers  a  moment  unsteadily  and  then 
falls  to  water  but  the  weeds  by  the  wayside.  And  thus  our 
young  men  of  promise,  who  would  seem  to  be  touched  by  a 
live  coal  from  off  the  altar  of  genius  —  whom  we  are  led 
fondly  to  regard  as  the  light  and  hope  of  our  age  —  the  heralds 
and  the  hasteners  of  that  fairer  future  which  our  hearts  so 
throbbingly  anticipate  —  seem  for  the  most  part  to  lack  that 
element  of  natural  quietude,  of  unconscious  strength,  which  we 
are  rightly  accustomed  to  consider  a  prediction  and  an  accom- 
paniment of  the  highest  Manhood.  Here  in  some  rude  hamlet — 
in  some  boorish  neighborhood  —  there  starts  into  view  a  rare 
youth,  whom  the  Divine  spark  would  seem  to  have  quickened 
—  who  bids  fair  to  freshen  by  at  least  a  chaplet  the  dusty  path- 
way of  human  endeavor.  But  forthwith  the  genius  must  be 
bandaged  into  rigidity  —  some  education  society,  or  kindred 
contrivance  for  the  promotion  of  dulness  and  mediocrity,  must 
take  hold  of  him  and  place  him  in  its  go-cart  —  there  must  be 
tomes  of  word-knowledge  and  the  petrifactions  of  by-gone  wis- 
dom hurled  through  his  cranium  —  he  must  be  led  away  from  all 
useful  labor  of  the  hands,  and  his  already  precocious  intellect 
subjected  to  the  hot-house  culture  of  some  seminary,  no  matter 
how  unsuited  to  his  mental  or  social  condition ;  thus  losing  his 
independence,  essential  and  pecuniary,  and  putting  his  whole 
life  upon  a  single  throw  of  the  dice,  and  they  so  loaded  that  the 


THE     PRINTER'S    BOOK.  71 

chances  are  heavily  against  him.  And  this  is  called  developing 
the  man  and  making  the  most  of  his  natural  gifts,  though  it 
would  seem  quite  as  likely  to  blast  them  altogether.  With 
new  scenes  and  an  utter  transformation  of  attitude  and  aims, 
come  strange  and  dizzying  excitement,  extravagant  hopes, 
inordinate  ambition,  along  with  novel  temptings  to  dissipation 
on  the  one  hand,  as  well  as  to  excessive  study  on  the  other. 
I  will  not  say  that  the  result  of  this  course  may  not  in  most  in- 
stances be  satisfactory  ;  I  only  urge  that  you  put  at  hazard  the 
youth  whom  Nature  has  marked  for  noble  ends,  trusting  to 
make  of  him  the  man  of  profound  acquirements,  who  after  all 
may  be  worth  less  than  the  material  out  of  which  he  was  con- 
structed. May  we  not  rather  trust  something  to  Nature? 
Would  we  willingly  exchange  to-day  the  ROBERT  BURNS  she 
gave  us  for  his  counterpart  educated  in  a  University  ?  Would 
we  not  prefer  that  the  poor,  rudely-taught  Ayrshire  plough- 
man had  never  seen  Edinburgh  and  its  cultivated  circles  at  all  ? 

And  yet  I  have  only  taken  hold  of  one  corner  of  the  forcing 
system.  Its  widest  if  not  its  worst  evils  are  felt  by  those  our 
impromptu  collegian  leaves  behind  him  —  in  the  conviction 
impressed  upon  the  youth  left  in  the  hamlet  that  they  can  never 
be  any  thing  but  ox-drivers,  because  they  cannot  enjoy  the 
advantages  of  what  is  termed  a  classical  education.  Thence 
the  poison  of  disquiet  and  discontent j —  the  irresolution  to  act 
worthily  under  a  mistaken  impression  that  adverse  circum- 
stances have  forbidden  that  any  thing  shall  worthily  be  done. 
I  confess  I  look  with  anxiety  on  what  seems  to  me  the  per- 
verted aspiration  so  universal  among  us*  There  is  an  incessant 
straining  for  outward  and  visible  advantages  —  to  be  Legisla- 
tors, Governors,  Professional  men,  Teachers  —  there  is  too 
little  appreciation  of  that  greatness  which  is  intrinsic  and 
above  the  reach  of  accident.  I  am  not  insensible  to  the  ad- 
vantages of  a  systematic  induction  into  all  the  arcana  of 
Science  —  of  a  knowledge  of  Languages  and  a  mastery  of  their 
vast  treasures  —  the  possession  even  of  power  and  its  honors- 
All  these  are  well  in  their  way,  but  they  are  not  properly  within 
the  legitimate  reach  of  all  who  feel  that  they  have  souls. 

More  intently  than  even  these  I  would  have  our  young  men 
contemplate  and  be  moulded  upon  such  characters  and  lives  as 


72  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

those  of  our  FRANKLIN,  the  penniless,  active  Apprentice,  the 
thriving,  contented,  Mechanic,  the  peerless  Philosopher,  the 
idolized  yet  not  flattered  ambassador ;  our  WASHINGTON,  car- 
rying the  surveyor's  chain  through  swamp  and  brier,  forming 
with  his  own  hatchet  a  rude  raft  for  crossing  the  deep-shaded* 
savage-haunted  Ohio  ;  long  and  ably  defending  his  country 
at  the  head  of  her  armies  ;  at  length  laying  aside  the  cares  of  a 
Nation's  destinies,  resisting  the  affectionate  entreaties  of  millions 
that  he  would  continue  to  bear  sway  over  half  a  continent,  in 
order  that  he  may  enjoy  for  the  brief  remainder  of  an  active, 
glorious  life,  the  blessings  of  the  domestic  fire-side,  the  un- 
troubled sleep  which  comes  only  to  the  couch  of  private  life. 
There  is  here  a  sweet  unconsciousness  of  greatness,  that  we 
realize  and  cling  to  at  a  glance.  We  recognize  under  every 
change  of  circumstance  the  strong  and  true  Man,  superior  to 
any  freak  of  Fortune.  No  culture  could  have  made  these  men 
more  or  less  than  they  appear  alike  to  us  and  to  all  observers. 
Is  not  the  lesson  they  teach  us  at  once  distinct  and  in- 
vigorating ? 

Let  me  not  be  misunderstood.  I  value  and  prize  Learning, 
Knowledge,  Culture,  while  esteeming  Self-Culture  and  Self- 
Development,  the  sum  of  them  all.  I  would  have  no  youth 
reject  facilities  for  acquiring  them  which  may  fairly  and  justly 
present  themselves,  so  that  he  may  embrace  them  without  sa- 
crifice of  his  proper  independence  or  neglect  of  his  proper  du- 
ties and  responsibilities  as  a  son,  a  brother,  a  citizen.  What  I 
object  to  is  the  too  common  notion  that  the  higher  Education  o 
the  Schools  is  essential  to  his  development  and  his  usefulness 
in  life,  thus  making  the  Circumstance  every  thing,  the  Man 
nothing.  If  I  have  not  incorrectly  observed,  the  effect  of  this 
prevalent  impression  is  often  to  pervert  and  misplace  the  indi- 
vidual whom  it  specially  contemplates,  while  it  is  morally  cer- 
tain to  work  injury  to  the  great  mass  of  his  brethren  by  origi- 
nal condition.  A  youth  in  humble  life  evinces  talent,  genius, 
or  the  love  of  knowledge  and  facility  of  acquiring  it,  which  are 
quite  commonly  confounded  with  either  or  both.  Forthwith 
he  must  be  taken  hold  of  and  transplanted,  and  stimulated  to 
acquirement,  in  an  atmosphere  and  under  influences  wholly 
different  from  those  which  have  thus  far  nourished  and  quick- 


TUB    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  78 

cncd  him.  Now  I  do  not  say  that  this  novel,  stimulating  pro- 
cess will  necessarily  mildew  or  distort  him  —  I  do  not  say  that 
he  is  inevitably  thrust  by  it  into  a  strange  orbit  for  which  he  is 
unbalanced  and  unfitted  —  I  do  not  say  that  he  will  be  educated 
into  flightiness  or  dunce-hood,  though  such  cases  may  be — have 
been.  What  I  would  most  earnestly  insist  on  is  this,  that  the 
continual  repetition  of  this  process  confirms  our  aspiring 
youth  in  the  mistaken  impression  that  they  can  be  nothing  with- 
out a  collegiate  education  and  a  profession,  while  it  depresses 
and  stunts  the  undistinguished  many  by  a  still  keener  humiliation. 
They  had  not  hoped  nor  aspired  to  give  light  to  others  —  they 
had  presumed  only  to  sun  themselves  in  the  rays  of  intellect 
which  had  burst  on  their  own  unnoted  sphere.  In  the  young 
aspirant  to  whom  their  village,  their  class,  had  given  birth, 
they  recognised  with  gladness  and  pride  an  evidence  of  the 
essential  brotherhood  of  Man  —  a  link  between  the  lowliest 
and  the  most  exalted.  He  has  shed  a  redeeming  halo  of  glory 
and  beauty,  of  hope  and  joy,  over  the  triteness  and  drudgery  of 
their  daily  paths.  But  in  the  first  moment  of  their  fond  exul- 
tation, the  unfolding  genius  expands  its  new-found  wings  and 
soars  beyond  their  sphere,  leaving  them  to  gaze  with  sinking 
heart  on  its  ascending,  receding  flight,  troubled  and  depressed 
where  they  should  have  been  assured  and  strengthened.  As  a 
farmer,  an  artizan  in  their  midst,  he  would  have  been  their 
glory  and  blessing  —  their  "  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend,"  — * 
for  there  is  nothing  in  the  contact  of  true  genius  which  dis- 
courages nor  disconcerts ;  but  he  hies  away  to  some  distant 
city  or  seminary,  and  now  he  is  no  longer  of  them,  but  has  vis- 
ibly enrolled  himself  in  a  different  class,  whose  members  they 
may  admire,  look  up  to,  and  even  reverence,  but  cannot  clasp 
in  the  bands  of  a  true  and  genial  sympathy.  There  are  too 
many  folds  of  papyrus  between  his  heart  and  theirs.  What 
I  would  urge  then,  is  this,  that  the  deep  want  of  our  time  is  not 
a  greater  number  of  scholars,  professional  men,  pastors,  educa- 
tors, (though  possibly  there  may  be  some  improvement  here  in 
the  quality  :)  the  need  of  new,  strong,  penetrating  and  healthy 
men  is  felt  rather  in  the  less  noticeable  walks  of  life.  We 
need  to  bring  the  sunlight  of  Genius  to  bear  on  the  common 
walks  —  to  dignify  the  sphere  as  well  as  facilitate  the  opera- 

9 


74  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

lions  of  the  Useful  Arts ;  to  hallow  and  exalt  the  pathway  of 
honest,  unpretending  Industry.  It  is  here  that  the  next  deci- 
ded movement  is  needed  and  will  be  made  in  the  way  of 
Human  Progress  —  not  a  pushing  forward  of  the  vanguard* 
but  a  bringing  up  of  the  main  body.  The  deep  want  of  the 
.time  is  that  the  vast  resources  and  capacities  of  Mind,  the  far- 
stretching  powers  of  Genius  and  of  Science,  be  brought  to 
bear  practically  arid  intimately  on  Agriculture,  the  Mechanic 
Arts,  and  all  the  now  rude  and  simple  processes  of  Day-Labor 
and  not  merely  that  these  processes  may  be  perfected  and  accel- 
erated but  that  the  benefits  of  the  improvements  may  accrue  in 
at  least  equal  measure  to  those  whose  accustomed  means  of 
livelihood — scanty  at  best — are  interfered  with  and  overturned 
by  the  change.  Not  merely  that  these  be  measurably  enriched, 
but  that  they  be  informed  and  elevated  by  the  vast  industrial 
transformations  now  in  progress  or  in  embryo,  is  the  obvious 
requirement.  Here  opens  a  field  for  truly  heroic  exertion  and 
achievement,  far  wider  and  nobler  than  that  of  any  Political 
heroism  of  ancient  or  modern  time,  because  its  results  must  be 
deeper,  more  pervading,  more  enduring.  I  would  insist  then 
that  our  youth  of  promise  shall  not  be  divorced  from  the  physi- 
cal toil,  the  material  interests  of  our  and  their  natal  condition, 
while  qualifying  themselves  for  the  highest  spheres  of  useful- 
ness and  endeavor.  I  would  not  have  them,  like  Geography  in 
our  Atlases,  contemplate  that  hemisphere  in  which  the  greatest 
advances  have  already  been  effected,  to  the  exclusion  of  that 
wherein  the  greatest  triumphs  yet  remain  to  be  achieved.  I 
would  not  have  them  bedeck  themselves  in  the  spoils  of  by- 
gone victories,  and  forget  that  the  adversaries,  Ignorance  and 
Obstacle  yet  remain  formidable  and  imminent. 

But  above  all,  I  would  have  no  youth  feel  that  he  is  debarred 
the  opportunities  of  a  useful  and  honorable,  if  he  please,  a  lofty 
and  heroic  career,  because  the  means  of  obtaining  a  Classical 
Education  are  denied  him.  I  will  not  point  him  to  the  many 
who  have  inscribed  their  names  high  on  the  rolls  of  enviable 
fame  without  such  Education,  for  the  logic  therein  implied 
might  as  well  be  used  to  reconcile  him  to  the  loss  of  an  eye 
or  an  arm.  I  will  not  argue  to  him  that  circumstances  are 
indifferent  or  unimportant ;  I  have  freely  admitted  the  contrary. 


75 


But  I  would  urge  to  such  a  one  that  the  essential  circumstance 
is  the  awakening  of  the  soul  to  a  consciousness  of  its  own 
powers  and  responsibilities,  and  that  this  is  determined 
in  the  very  fact  of  his  seeking,  with  eye  single  and  heart 
pure,  a  larger  development,  a  more  thorough  culture.  This 
point  attained  let  him  doubt  nothing,  fear  nothing,  save 
his  own  steadiness  of  purpose,  and  loftiness  of  aim.  Be 
not  discouraged  then  awakened  youth,  in  some  lowly  cot- 
tage, some  boorish  valley,  by  the  magnitude  of  others'  at- 
tainments, the  richness  of  others'  facilities  for  acquiring  and 
investigating,  as  contrasted  with  the  seeming  poverty  of 
your  own  ;  but  remember  and  be  reverently  thankful  that  the 
same  high  stars  which  shining  so  brightly  upon  the  palace, 
the  university,  the  senate  house,  have  kindled  the  souls  of 
philosophers,  sages,  statesmen  in  times  past,  now  look  down 
as  kindly,  inspiringly  on  you  ;  and  in  the  fact  that  they  have 
touched  an  answering  chord  within  you  is  an  earnest  that 
their  companionship  shall  never  more  be  sullen  or  fruitless. 
From  this  hour  shall  all  Nature  be  your  teacher,  your  min- 
istrant  ;  her  infinite  grandeur  no  longer  a  barren  pageant  ;  her 
weird  and  solemn  voices  no  more  unmeaning  sounds.  Though 
they  should  come  to  you  no  more  at  second-hand  from  the  lips 
of  her  Pindar,  her  Shakspeare,  they  can  never  more  be 
hushed  nor  unheeded  ;  they  have  passed  from  the  realm  of 
darkness,  doubt,  of  speculation,  and  become  to  you  the  deepest 
and  grandest  realities  of  Human  Life  ! 


THE   PRESS. 


THE  modern  Sybil,  whose  leaves,  all  written  over  with 
living  truths  or  lying  wonders,  are  borne  on  every  breeze 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  May  there  be  attending  priests  and 
scribes,  to  arrange  and  set  forth  her  responses,  as  the  oracles 
of  God,  that  they  who  trust  to  them,  rnay  not  be  confounded. 


76  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

FRAGMENTS. 

BY    THE    LATE    WILLIAM    B.    MARSH. 

I  STOOD  upon  a  spot  consecrated  by  the  blood  of  our 
fathers  —  the  first  battle  ground  of  the  Revolution,  where  the 
opposing  armies  of  England  and  America  first  met  in  dreadful 
conflict.  It  was  an  elevated  site,  covered  with  rich  green 
sward,  sloping  gradually  down  to  the  water's  edge  on  either 
hand.  The  air  of  peaceful,  dreamy  repose,  which  brooded  over 
it,  contrasted  strongly  with  the  time,  when  its  sides  ran  down 
with  blood  —  when  the  long  grass  was  crimsoned  with  human 
gore  !  Alas  !  who  can  realize  the  depth  and  extent  of  misery 
which  follow  in  the  wake  of  sanguinary  warfare  ?  How  igno- 
ble the  triumphs  of  conquerors,  who,  stimulated  by  ambition  and 
avarice,  have  hewn  their  way  to  thrones  through  blood! 
Happily,  no  such  reminiscences  are  awakened  here.  A  higher, 
a  holier  principle  gave  the  impulse,  and  sealed  the  victory. 


READER  !  hast  thou  a  home,  to  which  long  absence  has  ren- 
dered thee  a  stranger?  Is  that  home  in  some  quiet  and 
romantic  village,  diversified  with  hill,  and  dale,  and  flower,  and 
shrub  —  its  shores  washed  by  some  broad  and  shining  river  — 
whose  margin  is  skirted  by  deep  old  forests,  vocal  with  the 
many  mingled  harmonies  of  birds,  the  rustling  of  leaves,  and 
the  moaning  of  the  rich  and  cumbersome  foliage  ?  Canst  picture 
to  thy  mind  the  time  when,  in  happy  innocence,  thou  hast  wan- 
dered among  its  sequestered  haunts,  and  whiled  away  the 
hours  in  mirthfulness  and  glee  ?  And  hath  fate  taken  thee  from 
these  scenes  of  joy,  and  sent  thee  forth  into  the  wide  world 
in  the  flush  of  early  youth,  to  cope,  single-handed,  with  its  trials 
and  troubles  ?  And  after  years  of  alternate  joys  and  sorrows, 
when  hope  was  almost  extinct  in  thy  bosom,  and  thou  hast 
fancied  thyself  the  sport  of  fortune,  have  unforeseen  events 
restored  thee  to  the  arms  of  those  who  had  long  since  buried 
thee,  as  it  were,  forever  ?  If  yea,  thy  hand  —  perchance  we 
may  commune  pleasantly  and  profitably  together. 


17  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 


THE  NEEDLE. 

BY    THE    LATE    SAMUEL    WOODWORTH. 

THE    gay   belles   of  fashion  may  boast  of  excelling 

In   waltz   or   cotillion  —  at   whist   or   quadrille ; 
And   seek   admiration   by   vauntingly   telling 

Of  drawing,  and   painting,  and   musical   skill; 
But  give  me   the  fair  one   in  country  or   city, 

Whose  home  and  its  duties  are  dear  to  her  heart, 
Who   cheerfully   warbles   some   rustical   ditty, 

While   plying   the  needle    with   exquisite   art, 
The   bright  little  needle  —  the  swift, flying  needle, 
.  The   needle  directed   by  beauty  and  art. 

If  love   have  a   potent,   a   magical   token, 

A  talisman  ever  resistless   and  true  — 
A   charm   that  is   never   evaded   or   broken, 

A  witchery  certain  the  heart  to  subdue  — 
'Tis   this  —  and  his   armory  never  has  furnished 

So  keen  and  unerring,  or  polished   a  dart ; 
Let  beauty  direct  it,   so  pointed  and  burnished, 

And  oh!   it  is   certain  of  touching  the  heart. 

Be  wise,  then,   ye  maidens,   nor   seek   admiration 

By  dressing  for  conquest,   and  flirting  with  all, 
You  never  whate'er  be  your  fortune   or  station, 

Appear  half  so  lovely   at  rout  or   at  ball, 
As   gaily   convened   at   a   work-covered   table, 

Each   cheerfully  active   and  playing  her  part, 
Beguiling  the  task   with   a   song  or  a  fable, 

And  plying   the  needle   with  exquisite  art. 

ON  A  LOVELY  COQUETTE. 

A   woman   with   a  winning  face, 

But  with   a  heart  untrue, 
Though   beautiful,   is   valueless 

As   diamonds   formed   of  dew. 


THE    PRINTER'S   BOOK.  78 

THE   PRICELESS    PEARL. 

BY     ISAAC     F.      JONES. 


THERE   is  a   pearl  more   rich   and   fair 
Than   Indian   gems   of  value  rare  — 

More   pure    than    Ophir's    gold ; 
A   pearl   whose   lustre   ne'er   declines, 
Whose  matchless  beauty   ever   shines 

In   land   of  joys   untold ; 
A   land  no  mortal   eye   hath  seen, 
For  death's   dark   shadows   intervene. 

That  pearl  no  mountain   cave    contains, 
Nor   coral  bed   in   deep   domains, 

The   booming  wave   below ; 
Its   light   is   not   that   glittering  ray, 
Which   gilded  baubles  oft   display, 

With  momentary  glow  — 
Its  mellow  rays   are   ever  shed 
Around  the   dying  Christian's   bed. 

'Tis   not  a  pearl  by  Avarice   sought  — 
A   pearl  from   distant   regions   brought  — 

In  ev'ry  clime  'tis   found; 
RELIGION   is  this  pearl  divine, 
Which  on  the   humble   heart   will  shine, 

And   ever  shall   abound : 
To  all  who   choose   'tis   freely   given, 
A  foretaste  of  the  joys   of  Heaven. 

This   pearl  will  light  the   darkest  way, 
Night's   cheerless   hours   will  turn   to   day, 

And  rays   of  hope   impart ; 
Dispel   the   gathering  fears   that   roll 
Oppressive   o'er   the   parting   soul, 

And  cheer  the   sinking  heart  — 
And   wide   unfold   the   throne   of  Him, 
Who  dwells   amid  the  Cherubim. 


79 


LOVE. 


BY     J.     BAYARD     TAYLOR. 

/. 

A  FADING,  fleeting  dream! 
That  blinds  awhile  with  bright  and  dazzling  ray, 

Until  the  heart  is  wildered  by  its  beam, 
And  wanders  from  its  lofty  path  away, 

While  meteors  wild  like  holy  planets  gleam, 
To  tempt  our  steps  astray! 

A  creature  of  the  brain! 
Whom  poets  painted  with  a  hue  divine — 

That,  bright  embodied  in  their  thrilling  strain, 
Makes  the  soul  drunken,  as  with  mental  wine, 
While  the  heart  bows  in  longing  and  in  pain 
Before  its  mystic  shrine! 

The  shadow  of  a  bliss! 
That  flies  the  spirit  hastening  to  enjoy  — 

That  seems  to  come  from  fairer  climes  than  this, 
To  throw  its  spells  around  the  dreaming  boy, 
But  steals  his  quiet  with  its  Siren-kiss, 
And  robs  his  soul  of  joy ! 

Is  this  that  power  unknown 
That  rules  the  world  with  curbless,  boundless  sway, 

Binding  the  lowest  cot  and  loftiest  throne 
In  golden  fetters,  which  resist  decay, 

And  breathing  o'er  each  cold  and  rugged  zone 
The  balminess  of  May? 

No!     By  the  soul's  high  trust 
On  Him  whose  mandate  bade  the  planets  move! 

Who,  kind  and  merciful,  though  sternly  just, 
Gave  unto  man  that  loftiest  boon  of  love, 
To  bless  the  spirit  till  his  form  is  dust, 
Then  soar  with  it  above! 


60 


Tis  no  delusive  spell, 
Binding  the  fond  heart  in  its  shadowy  hall; 

But  'neath  its  power  the  purer  feelings  swell, 
Till  man  forgets  his  thraldom  and  his  fall, 
And  bliss,  that  slumbers  in  the  spirit's  cell, 
Wakes  at  its  magic  call. 

Where'er  its  light  has  been, 
But  for  a  moment,  twilight  will  remain; 

Beibre  whose  ray,  the  night-born  thoughts  of  sin 
Cease  from  their  torture  of  the  maddened  brain, 
The  spirit,  deepest  fallen,  it  can  win 
To  better  thoughts   again! 

'Tis  for  the  young  a  star, 
Beckoning  the  spirit  to  the  future  on  — 
Shining  with  pure  and  steady  ray  afar, 
The  herald  of  a  yet  unbroken  dawn, 

Where  every  fetter  that  has  power  to  bar 
In  its  warm  glow  is  gone! 

Who  ne'er  hath  oped  his  heart 
To  that  dove-messenger  on  life's  dark  sea, 

Binds  down  his  soul,  in  cold,  mistaken  art, 
When  vainly  hoping  he  has  made  it  free! 
In  earth's  great  family  he  takes  no  part — 
He  has  not  learned  to  le! 

Who  longs  to  feel  its  glow, 
And  nurtures  every  spark  unto  him  given, 

Has  instincts  of  the  rapture  he  shall  know 
When  from  its  thralling  dust  the  soul  is  riven. 
He  breathes,  so  long  it  blesses  him  below, 
The  native  air  of  Heaven! 


THE    MAGNETIC    TELEGRAPH. 

"The  steed  called  Lightning,"  says  the   Fates, 
"  Is  owned  in  the  United  States ; 
'Twas  FRANKLIN'S  hand  that  caught  the  horse, 
'Twas  harnessed  by  Professor  MORSE." 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  81 


THE  WIDOW   BY  BREVET. 


BY    N.    PARKER   WILLIS. 

LET  me  introduce  the  courteous  reader  to  two  ladies. 

Miss  Picklin,  a  tall  young  lady  of  twenty-one,  near  enough 
to  good-looking  to  permit  of  a  delusion  on  the  subject  (of  which 
however,  she  had  an  entire  monopoly),  with  cheeks  always 
red  in  a  small  spot,  lips  not  so  red  as  the  cheeks,  and  rather 
thin,  sharpish  nose,  and  waist  very  slender  ;  and  last  (not  least 
important),  a  very  long  neck,  scalded  on  either  side  into  a 
resemblance  to  a  scroll  of  shriveled  parchment,  which  might 
or  might  not  be  considered  as  a  mts-fortune  serving  her  as  a 
title-deed  to  twenty-thousand  dollars.  The  scald  was  inflicted, 
and  the  fortune  left  in  consequence,  by  a  maiden  aunt,  who,  in 
the  baby-hood  of  Miss  Picklin,  attempted  to  cure  the  child's 
sore  throat  by  an  application  of  cabbage-leaves  steeped  in  hof 
vinegar. 

Miss  Euphemia  Picklin,  commonly  called  Phemie — a  good- 
humored  girl,  rather  inclined  to  be  fat,  but  gifted  with  several 
points  of  beauty  of  which  she  was  not  at  all  aware,  very  much 
a  pet  among  her  female  friends,  and,  admitting,  with  perfect 
sincerity  and  submission,  her  sister's  exclusive  right  to  the 
admiration  of  the  gentlemen  of  their  acquaintance. 

Captain  Isaiah  Picklin,  the  father  of  these  ladies,  was  a 
merchant  of  Salem,  an  importer  of  figs  and  opium,  and  once 
master  of  the  brig,  "Simple  Susan,"  which  still  plied  between 
his  warehouse  and  Constantinople — nails  and  codfish  the  cargo 
outward.  I  have  not  Miss  Picklin's  permission  to  mention  the 
precise  date  of  the  events  I  am  about  to  record,  and  leaving 
that  point  alone  to  the  imagination  of  the  reader,  I  shall  set 
down  the  other  particulars  and  impediments  in  her  "  course 
of  true  love"  with  historical  fidelity. 

Ever  since  she  had  been  of  sufficient  age,  to  turn  her  atten- 
tion exclusively  to  matrimony,  Miss  Picklin  had  nourished  a  pre- 
10 


82 

sentiment  that  her  destiny  was  exotic ;  that  the  soil  of  Salem 
was  too  poor,  and  the  indigenous  lovers  too  mean  ;  and  that, 
potted  in  her  twenty  thousand  dollars,  she  was  a  choice  pro- 
duction, set  aside  for  flowering  in  a  foreign  clime,  and  destin- 
ed to  be  transplanted  by  a  foreign  lover.  With  this  secret  in 
her  bosom,  she  had  refused  one  or  two  gentlemen  of  middle 
age,  recommended  by  her  father,  beside  sundry  score  of  young 
gentlemen  of  slender  revenues  in  her  own  set  of  acquaintances, 
till,  if  there  had  been  anything  beside  poetry  in  Shakspeare's 
assertion,  that  it  is — 

**  Broom  groves 
Whose  shadow  the  dismissed  bachelor  loves/' 

the  neighboring  "  brush  barrens"  ofSaogus  would  have  sold 
in  lots  at  a  premium.  It  was  possibly  from  the  want  of  night- 
ingales, to  whose  complaining  notes  the  gentleman  of  Verona 
"  turned  his  distresses,"  that  the  discarded  of  Salem  preferred 
the  consolations  of  Phemie  Picklin. 

News  to  the  Picklins  I  Hassan  Keui,  the  son  of  old  Abdoul 
Keui,  was  coming  out  in  the  "  Simple  Susan !"  A  Turk — a 
live  Turk — a  young  Turk,  and  a  son  of  her  father's  rich  cor- 
respondent in  Turkey  !  "  Ah  me  !"  thought  Miss  Picklin. 

The  captain  himself  was  rather  taken  aback.  He  had  known- 
old  Abdoul  for  many  years,  had  traded  and  smoked  with  him  in 
the  cafes  of  Galata,  had  gone  out  with  him  on  Sundays  to  lounge 
on  the  tombstones  at  Scutari,  and  had  never  thought  twice 
about  his  yellow  gown  and  fed  trowsers  ;  but  what  the  deuce 
would  be  thought  of  them  in  Salem  ?  True,  it  was  his  son  ; 
but  a  Turk's  clothes  descend  from  father  to  son  through  three 
generations ;  he  knew  that,  from  remembering  this  very  boy 
all  but  smothered  in  a  sort  of  saffron  blanket,  with  sleeves  like 
pillow-cases — his  first  assumption  of  the  toga  virilis  (not  that 
old  Picklin  knew  Latin,  but  such  was  "  his  sentiment  better 
expressed").  Then  he  had  never  been  asked  to  the  house 
of  the  Stamboul  merchant,  not  introduced  to  his  wives  nor 
his  daughters  (indeed,  he  had  forgotten  that  old  Keui  was 
near  cutting  his  throat  for  asking  utter  them) — but  of  course  it 
•was  very  different  in  Salem.  Young  Keui  must  be  the  Picklia 


83 

s 

guest,  fed  and  lodged,  and  the  girls  would  want  to  give  him 
a  tea-party.  Would  he  sit  on  a  chair,  or  want  cushions  on 
the  floor  ?  Would  he  come  to  dinner  with  his  breast  bare,  and 
leave  his  boots  outside?  Would  he  eat  rice- pudding  with  his 
fingers  ?  Would  he  think  it  indecent  if  the  girls  didn't  wear 
linen  cloths,  Turkey  fashion,  over  their  mouths  and  noses  ? 
Would  he  bring  his  pipes  ?  Would  he  fall  on  his  face  and  say 
his  prayers  four  times  a  day,  wherever  he  should  be  (with  a 
clean  place  handy)  ?  What  would  the  neighbors  say  ?  The 
captain  worked  himself  into  a  violent  perspiration  with  merely 
thinking  of  all  this. 

The  Salemites  have  a  famous  museum,  and  know  "  what 
manner  of  thing  is  your  crocodile;"  but  a  live  Turk  consigned 
to  Captain  Picldin  !  It  set  the  town  in  a  fever  ! 

It  would  leave  an  indelicate  opening  for  a  conjecture  as  to 
Miss  Picklin's  present  age,  were  I  to  state  whether  or  not  the 
arrival  of  the  "  Simple  Susan"  was  reported  by  telegraph. 
She  ran  in  with  a  fair  wind  one  Sunday  morning,  and  was 
immediately  boarded  by  the  harbor-master  and  Captain  Pick- 
lin;  and  there,  true  to  the  prophetic  boding  of  old  Isaiah,  the 
young  Turk  sat  cross-legged  on  the  quarter-deck,  in  a  white 
turban  and  scarlet  et  ceteras,  smoking  his  father's  identical  pipe 
— no  other,  the  captain  would  have  taken  his  oath  ! 

Up  rose  Hassan,  when  informed  who  was  his  visitor,  and 
taking  old  Picklin's  hand,  put  it  to  his  forehead.  The  weather- 
stained  sea-captain  had  bleached  in  the  counting-house,  and  he 
had  not  at  first  sight,  remembered  the  old  friend  of  his  father. 
He  passed  the  pipe  into  Isaiah's  hand  and  begged  him  to  keep 
it  as  a  memento  of  Abdoul,  for  his  father  had  died  at  the  last 
Ramazan,  Hassan  had  come  out  to  see  the  world,  and  secure 
a  continuance  of  codfish  and  good-will  from  the  house  of 
Picklin ;  and  the  merchant  got  astride  the  tiller  of  his  old 
craft,  and  smoked  this  news  through  his  amber-mouthed  lega- 
cy, while  the  youth  went  below,  to  get  ready  to  go  ashore. 

The  reader,  of  course  will  prefer  to  share  the  first  impres- 
sions of  the  ladies  as  to  the  young  Mussulman's  personal  ap- 
pearance, and  I  pass,  at  once,  therefore,  to  their  dissappoint- 
ment,  surprise,  mortification  and  vexation :  when,  as  the  bells 
were  ringing  for  church,  the  front  door  opened,  their  father 


84  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

entered,  and  in  followed  a  young  gentleman  in  frock-coat  and 
trowsers  !  Yes,  and  in  his  hand  a  hat — a  black  hat — and  on 
his  feet  no  yellow  boots,  but  calfskin,  mundane  and  common 
calfskin,  and  with  no  shaved  head,  and  no  twisted  shawl  around 
his  waist ;  nothing  to  be  seen  but  a  very  handsome  young  man, 
indeed,  with  teeth  like  a  fresh  slice  of  cocoa-nut  meat,  and  a 
very  deliberate  pronunciation  to  his  bad  English. 

Miss  Picklin's  disappointment  had  to  be  slept  upon,  for  she 
had  made  great  outlay  of  imagination  upon  the  pomp  and  cir- 
cumstance of  wedding  a  white  Othello  in  the  eyes  of  wondering 
Salem  ;  but  Phemie's  surprise  took  but  five  minutes  to  grow 
into  a  positive  pleasure ;  and  never  suspecting,  at  any  time, 
that  she  was  visible  to  the  naked  eye  during  the  eclipsing  pres- 
ence of  her  sister,  she  sat  with  a  very  admiring  smile  upon 
her  lips,  and  her  soft  eyes  fixed  earnestly  on  the  stranger,  till 
she  had  made  out  a  full  inventory  of  his  features,  proportions, 
manners,  and  other  stuffavailable  in  dream-land.  What  might 
be  Hassan's  impression  of  the  young  ladies,  could  not  be  gath- 
ered from  his  manner ;  for,  in  the  first  place,  there  was  the  re- 
serve which  belonged  to  him  as  a  Turk,  and,  in  the  second 
place,  there  was  a  violation  of  all  Oriental  notions  of  modesty 
in  their  exposing  their  chins  to  the  masculine  observation ; 
and  though  he  could  endure  the  exposure,  it  was  of  course  with 
that  diffidence  of  gaze  which  accompanies  the  consciousness 
of  improper  objects — adding  to  his  demeanor  another  shade  of 
timidity. 

Miss  Picklin's  shoulders  were  not  invaded  quite  to  the  limits 
of  terra  cognita  by  the  cabbage-leaves  which  had  exercised 
such  an  influence  on  her  destiny  ;  and  as  the  scalds  somewhat 
resembled  two  maps  of  South  America  (with  Patagonia  under 
each  ear),  she  usually,  in  full  dress,  gave  a  clear  view  of  the 
surrounding  ocean — wisely  thinking  it  better  to  have  the  geo- 
graphy of  her  disfigurement  well  understood,  than,  by  covering 
a  small  extremity  (as  it  were  the  isthmus  of  Darien),  to  leave 
an  undiscovered  North  America  to  the  imagination.  She  ap- 
peared accordingly  at  dinner  in  a  costume  not  likely  to  dimin- 
ish the  modest  embarrassment  of  Mr.  Keui  (as  she  chose  to 
call  him) — extremely  decollete,  in  a  pink  silk  dress  with  short 
sleeves,  and  in  a  turban  with  a  gold  fringe — the  latter,  of  course, 


THE   PRINTER'S    BOOK.  85 

out  of  compliment  to  his  country.  "  Money  Is  power,"  even 
in  family  circles,  and  it  was  only  Miss  Picklin  who  exercised 
the  privilege  of  full  dress  at  a  mid-day  dinner.  Phemie  came 
to  table  dressed  as  at  breakfast,  and  if  she  felt  at  all  envious  of 
her  sister's  pink  gown  and  elbows  to  match,  it  did  not  appear 
in  her  pleasant  face  or  sisterly  attention.  The  captain  would 
allow  anything,  and  do  almost  anything,  for  his  rich  daughter; 
but  as  to  dining  with  his  coat  on,  in  hot  weather,  company 
or  no  company,  he  would  rather — 

"  be  set  quick  i'  the  earth, 
And  bowled  to  death  with  turnips" —    . 

though  that  is  not  the  way  he  expressed  it.  The  parti  carre, 
therefore  (for  there  was  no  Mrs.  Picklin),  was  in  the  matter 
of  costume,  rather  incongruous,  but,  as  the  Turk  took  it  for 
granted  that  it  was  all  according  to  the  custom  of  the  country, 
the  carving  was  achieved  by  the  shirt-sleeved  captain,  and  the 
pudding  "  helped"  by  his  bare-armed  daughter,  with  no  par- 
ticular commotion  in  the  elements.  Earthquakes  do  not  inva- 
riably follow  violations  of  etiquette — particularly  where  no- 
body is  offended. 

After  the  first  day,  things  took  their  natural  course — as 
near  as  they  were  able.  Hassan  was  not  very  quick  at  con- 
versation, always  taking  at  least  five  minutes  to  put  together 
for  delivery,  a  sentence  in  English  ;  but  his  laugh  did  not  hang 
fire,  nor  did  his  nods  and  smiles  ;  and  where  ladies  are  voluble 
(as  ladies  sometimes  are),  this  paucity  of  ammunition  on  the 
gentleman's  part  is  no  prelude  to  discomfiture.  Then  Phemie 
had  a  very  fair  smattering  of  Italian,  and  that  being  the  busi- 
ness language  of  the  Levant,  Hassan  took  refuge  in  it  whenever 
brought  to  a  stand-still  in  English  —  a  refuge,  by-the-way,  of 
which  he  seemed  inclined  to  avail  himself  oftener  than  was 
consistent  with  Miss  Picklin's  exclusive  property  in  his  atten- 
tion. Rebellious  though  Hassan  might  secretly  have  been  to 
this  authority  over  himself,  Phemie  was  no  accomplice,  nat- 
ural modesty  combining  with  the  long  habit  of  subserviency 
lo  make  her  even  anticipate  the  exactions  of  the  heiress  ;  and 
so  Miss  Picklin  had  "  Mr.  Keui"  principally  to  herself,  prome- 


86  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

^ . 

nading  him  through  the  streets  of  Salem,  and  bestowing  her 
sweetness  upon  him  from  his  morning  entrance  to  his  evening 
exit ;  Phemie  relieving  guard  very  cheerfully,  while  her  sister 
•dressed  for  dinner.  It  was  possibly  from  being  permitted  to 
converse  in  Italian  during  this  half  hour,  that  Hassan  made  it 
the  only  part  of  the  day  in  which  he  talked  of  himself  and  his 
house  on  the  Bosphorus,  but  that  will  not  account  also  for 
Phemie's  sighing  while  she  listened — never  having  sighed  be- 
fore in  her  life,  not  even  while  the  same  voice  was  talking 
English  to  her  sister. 

Without  going  into  a  description  of  the  Picklin  tea  party, 
at  which  Hassan  was  induced  to  figure  in  his  Oriental  cos- 
tume, while  Miss  Picklin  sat  by  him  on  a  cushion,  turbaned 
arid  (probably)  cross-legged,  a  la  Sultana,  and  without  re- 
cording other  signs  satisfactory  to  the  Salemitcs,  that  the 
young  Turk  had  fallen  to  the  scalded  heiress — 

"  As  does  the  osprey  to  the  fish,  that  takes  it, 
By  sovereignty  of  nature," 

I  must  come  plump  to  the  fact,  that  on  the  Monday  following 
(one  week  after  his  arrival),  Hassan  left  Salem  ^waccompan- 
ied  by  Miss  Picklin.  As  he  had  asked  for  no  private  interview 
in  the  best  parlor,  and  had  made  his  final  business  arrangements 
with  the  captain,  so  that  he  could  take  passage  from  New- 
York  without  returning,  some  people  were  inclined  to  fancy 
that  Miss  Picklin's  demonstrations  with  regard  to  him  had  been 
a  little  premature.  And  "  some  people"  chose  to  smile.  But  it 
was  reserved  for  Miss  Picklin  to  look  round  in  church,  in  about 
one  year  from  this  event,  and  have  her  triumph  over  "  some 
people  ;"  for  she  was  about  to  sail  for  Constantinople  —  "  sent 
for,"  as  the  captain  rudely  expressed  it.  But  I  must  explain. 
The  "  Simple  Susan"  came  in  heavily  freighted  with  a 
consignment  from  the  house  of  Keui  to  Picklin  &  Co.,  and 
a  letter  from  the  American  consul  at  Constantinople  wrapped 
in  the  invoice.  With  the  careful  and  ornate  wording  of  an  of- 
ficial epistle,  it  stated  that  EfFendi  Hassan  Keui  had  called  on 
the  consul,  and  partly  from  the  mistrust  of  his  ability  to  ex- 
press himself  in  English  on  so  delicate  a  subject,  but  more  par- 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  87 

ticularly  for  the  sake  of  approaching  the  object  of  his  affec- 
tions with  proper  deference  and  ceremony,  he  had  requested 
that  officer  to  prepare  a  document  conveying  a  proposal  of  mar- 
riage to  the  daughter  of  Captain  Picklin.  The  incomplete 
state  of  his  mercantile  arrangements  while  at  Salem  the  pre- 
vious year,  would  account  for  his  silence  on  the  subject  at 
that  time,  but  he  trusted  that  his  preference  had  been  sufficiently 
manifest  to  the  lady  of  his  heart ;  and  as  his  prosperity  in  bus- 
iness depended  on  his  remaining  at  Constantinople,  enriching 
himself  only  for  her  sake,  he  was  sure  that  the  singular  request 
appended  to  his  offer  would  be  taken  as  a  mark  of  his  prudence 
rather  than  as  a  presumption.  The  cabin  of  the  "  Simple  Su- 
san," as  Captain  Picklin  knew,  was  engaged  on  her  next  pas- 
sage to  Constantinople  by  a  party  of  missionaries,  male  and 
female,  and  the  request  was  to  the  intent  that,  in  case  of  an 
acceptance  of  his  offer,  the  fair  daughter  of  the  owner  would 
come  out,  under  their  sufficient  protection,,  to  be  wedded,  if 
she  should  so  please,  on  the  day  of  her  arrival  in  the 
"  Golden  Horn." 

As  Miss  Picklin  had  preserved  a  mysterious  silence  on  the 
subject  of  "  Mr.  Keui's"  attentions  since  his  departure,  and 
as  a  lady  with  twenty  thousand  dollars  in  her  own  right  is,  of 
course,  quite  independent  of  parental  control,  the  captain,  after 
running  his  eye  hastily  through  the  document,  called  to  the 
boy  who  was  weighing  out  a  quintal  of  codfish,  and  bade  him 
wrap  the  letter  in  a  brown  paper  and  run  with  it  to  Miss  Pick- 
lin — taking  it  for  granted  that  she  knew  more  about  the  matter 
than  he  did,  and  would  explain  it  all  when  he  came  4home  to- 
dinner. 

In  thinking  the  matter  over,  on  his  way  home,  it  occurred 
to  old  Picklin  that  it  was  worded  as  if  he  had  but  one  daughter. 
At  any  rate,  he  was  quite  sure  that  neither  of  his  daughters- 
was  particularly  specified,  either  by  name  or  age.  No  doubt 
it  was  all  right,  however.  The  girls  understood  it. 

"  So  it's  you,  miss  !"  he  said,  as  Miss  Picklin  looked  round 
from  the  turban  she  was  trying  on  before  the  glass. 

"  Certainly,  pa  !  who  else  should  it  be  ?" 

And  there  ended  the  captain's  doubts,  for  he  never  again  got 
sight  of  the  letter,  and  the  turmoil  of  preparation  for  Miss  Pick- 


88  THE     PRINT  E  R  '  «     BOOK. 

lin's  voyage,  made  the  house  anything  but  a  place  for  getting 
answers  to  impertinent  questions.  Phemie,  whom  the  news 
had  made  silent  and  thoughtful,  let  drop  a  hint  or  two  that  she 
would  like  to  see  the  letter ;  but  a  mysterious  air,  and  "  La, 
child,  you  wouldn't  understand  it,"  was  check  enough  for  her 
timid  curiosity,  and  she  plied  her  needle  upon  her  sister's  wed- 
ding-dress with  patient  submission. 

The  preparations  for  the  voyage  went  on  swimmingly. 
The  missionaries  were  written  to,  and  willingly  consented  to 
chaperon  Miss  Picklin  over  the  seas,  provided  her  union  with 
a  pagan  was  to  be  sanctified  with  a  Christian  ceremonial. 
Miss  Picklin  replied  with  virtuous  promptitude  that  the  cake 
for  the  wedding  was  already  soldered  up  in  a  tin  case,  and 
that  she  was  to  be  married  immediately  on  her  arrival,  under 
an  awning  on  the  brig's  deck,  and  she  hoped  that  four  of  the 
missionaries'  wives  would  oblige  her  by  standing  up  as  her 
bridesmaids.  Many  square  feet  of  codfish  were  unladen  from 
the  "  Simple  Susan"  to  make  room  for  boxes  and  bags,  and 
one  large  case  was  finally  shipped,  the  contents  of  which  had 
been  shopped  for  by  ladies  with  families — no  book  of  Oriental 
travels  making  any  allusion  to  the  sale  of  such  articles  in  Con- 
stantinople, though,  in  the  natural  course  of  things,  they  must 
be  wanted  as  much  in  Turkey  as  in  Salem. 

The  brig  was  finally  cleared,  and  lay  off  in  the  stream,  and 
on  the  evening  before  the  embarkation  the  missionaries  arrived 
and  were  invited  to  a  tea-party  at  the  Pick  lin's.  Miss  Picklin 
had  got  up  a  little  surprise  for  her  friends  with  which  to  close 
the  party — a  "  walking  tableau"  as  she  termed  it,  in  which 
she  should  suddenly  make  her  apparition  at  one  door,  pass 
through  the  room,  and  go  out  at  the  other,  dressed  as  a  sulta- 
na, with  a  muslin  kirtle  and  satin  trowsers.  She  disappeared 
accordingly  half  an  hour  before  the  breaking  up  ;  and,  con- 
versation rather  languishing  in  her  absence,  the  eldest  of  the 
missionaries  rose  to  conclude  the  evening  with  a  prayer,  in  the 
midst  of  which  Miss  Picklin  passed  through  the  room  unper- 
ceived  —  the  faces  of  the  company  being  turned  to  the  wall. 

The  next  morning  at  daylight  the  "  Simple  Susan"  put  to 
sea  with  a  fair  wind,  and  at  the  usual  hour  for  opening  the 
store  of  Picklin  &  Co.,  she  had  dropped  below  the  horizon. 


THE     PftlNTEIl's     BOOK.  89 

Phemie  sat  upon  the  end  of  the  wharf  and  watched  her  till  she 
was  out  of  sight,  and  the  captain  walked  up  and  down  between 
two  puncheons  of  rum  which  stood  at  the  distance  of  a  quar- 
ter-deck's length  from  each  other,  and  both  father  and  daugh- 
ter were  silent.  The  captain  had  a  confused  thought  or  two 
besides  the  grief  of  parting,  and  Phemie  had  feelings  quite  as 
confused,  which  were  not  all  made  up  of  sorrow  for  the  loss 
of  her  sister.  Perhaps  the  reader  will  be  at  the  trouble  of 
spelling  out  their  riddles  while  I  try  to  let  him  down  softly  to 
the  catastrophe  of  my  story. 

Without  confessing  to  any  ailment  whatever,  the  plump  Phe- 
mie paled  and  thinned  from  the  day  of  her  sister's  departure. 
Her  spirits,  too,  seemed  to  keep  her  flesh  and  color  company, 
and  at  the  end  of  a  month  the  captain  was  told  by  one  of  the 
good  dames  of  Salem  that  he  had  better  ask  a  physician  what 
ailed  her.  The  doctor  could  make  nothing  out  of  it  except 
that  she  might  be  fretting  for  the  loss  of  her  sister,  and  he  re- 
commended a  change  of  scene  and  climate.  That  day,  Cap- 
tain Brown,  an  old  mate  of  Isaiah's,  dropped  in  to  eat  a  fami- 
ly dinner  and  say  good-by,  as  he  was  about  sailing  in  the  new 
schooner  Nancy,  for  the  Black  Sea — his  wife  for  his  only  pas- 
senger. Of  course  he  would  be  obliged  to  drop  anchor  at 
Constantinople,  to  wait  for  a  fair  wind  up  the  Bosphorus,  and 
part  of  his  errand  was  to  offer  to  take  letters  and  nicknackeries 
to  Mrs.  Keui.  Old  Picklin  put  the  two  things  together,  and 
over  their  glass  of  wine  he  proposed  to  Brown  to  take  Phemie 
with  Mrs.  Brown  to  Constantinople,  leave  them  both  there  on 
a  visit  to  Mrs.  Keui,  till  the  return  of  the  Nancy  from  the  Black 
Sea,  and  then  re-embark  them  for  Salem.  Phemie  came  into 
the  room  just  as  they  were  touching  glasses  on  the  agreement, 
and  when  the  trip  was  proposed  to  her  she  first  colored  violent- 
ly, and  then  grew  pale  and  burst  into  tears  ;  but  consented  to 
go.  And,  with  such  preparations  as  she  could  make  that  eve- 
ning, she  was  quite  ready  at  the  appointed  hour,  and  was  off 
with  the  land-breeze  the  next  morning,  taking  leave  of  nobody 
but  her  father.  At  this  time  the  old  man  wiped  his  eyes  very 
often  before  the  departing  vessel  was  "  hull  down,"  and  was 
heartily  sorry  he  had  let  Phemie  go  without  a  great  many  pres- 
ents and  a  great  many  more  kisses.  *  *  *  * 

11 


90  THE   PRINTER'S   BOOK. 

A  fine,  breezy  morning  at  Constantinople ! 

Rapidly  down  the  Bosphorus  shot  the  caique  of  Hassan  Keui, 
bearing  its  master  from  his  country-house  at  Dolma-batchi  to 
his  warehouses  at  Galata.  Just  before  the  sharp  prow  round- 
ed away  toward  the  Golden  Horn,  the  merchant  motioned  to 
the  caikjis  to  rest  upon  their  oars,  and,  standing  erect  in  the 
slender  craft,  he  strained  his  gaze  long  and  with  anxious  ear- 
nestness toward  the  sea  of  Marmora.  Not  a  sail  was  to  be 
seen  coming  from  the  west,  except  a  man-of-war  with  a  cres- 
cent flag  at  the  peak,  lying  off  toward  Scutari  from  Seraglio 
Point,  and  with  a  sigh  that  carried  the  cloud  off  his  brow,  Has- 
san gaily  squatted  once  more  to  his  cushions,  and  the  caique 
sped  merrHy  on.  In  and  out,  among  the  vessels  at  anchor,  the 
airy  bark  threaded  her  way  with  the  dextrous  swiftness  of  a 
bird,  when  suddenly  a  cable  rose  beneath  her  and  lifted  her 
half  out  of  the  water.  A  vessel  newly  arrived  was  hauling  in 
to  a  close  anchorage,  and  they  had  crossed  her  hawser  as  it 
rose  to  the  surface.  Pitched  headlong  into  the  lap  of  the  near- 
est caikji,  the  Turk's  snowy  turban  fell  into  the  water  and  was 
carried  by  the  eddy  under  the  stern  of  the  vessel  rounding  to, 
and  as  the  caique  was  driven  backward  to  regain  it,  the  bare- 
headed owner  sank  back  aghast — SIMPLE  SUSAN  OF  SALEM 
staring  him  in  the  face  in  golden  capitals. 

"Oh  !  Mr.  Keui !  how  do  you  do  !"  cried  a  well-remember- 
ed voice,  as  he  raised  himself  to  fend  off  by  the  rudder  of  the 
brig.  And  there  she  stood  within  two  feet  of  his  lips— rMiss 
Pick!  in  in  her  bridal  veil,  waiting  below  in  expectant  modesty, 
and  though  surprised  by  his  peep  into  the  cabin  windows,  ex- 
cusing it  as  a  natural  impatience  in  a  bridegroom  coming  to 
his  bride. 

The  captain  of  the  Susan,  meantime,  had  looked  over  the 
tafferel  and  recognized  his  old  passenger,  and  Hassan,  who- 
would  have  given  a  cargo  of  opium  for  an  hour  to  compose 
himself,  mounted  the  ladder  which  was  thrown  out  to  him,  and 
stepped  from  the  gangway  into  Miss  Picklin's  arms  !  She 
had  rushed  up  to  receive  him,  dressed  in  her  muslin  kirtle  and 
satin  trowsers,  though  with  her  dramatic  sense  of  propriety, 
she  had  intended  to  remain  below  till  summoned  to  the  bridal. 
The  captain,  of  course,  kept  back  from  delicacy,  but  the  mis- 


THE   PRINTER'S    BOOK.  91 

sionaries  stood  in  a  cluster  gazing  on  the  happy  meeting,  and 
the  sailors  looked  over  their  shoulders  as  they  heaved  at  the 
windlass.  As  Miss  Picklin  afterward  remarked,  "  it  would 
have  been  a  tableau  vivant  if  the  deck  had  not  been  so  very 
dirty  !" 

Hassan  wiped  his  eyes,  for  he  had  replaced  his  wet  turban 
on  his  head,  but  what  with  his  escape  from  drowning,  and 
what  with  his  surprise  and  embarrassment  [for  he  had  a  diffi- 
cult part  to  play,  as  the  reader  will  presently  understand],  he 
had  lost  all  memory  of  his  little  stock  of  English.  Miss  Pick- 
lin drew  him  gently  by  the  hand  to  the  quarter-deck,  where,  un- 
der an  awning  fringed  with  curtains  partly  drawn,  stood  a  table 
with  a  loaf  of  wedding-cake  upon  it,  and  a  bottle  of  wine  and  a 
bible.  She  nodded  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Griffin,  who  took  hold  of  a 
chair,  and  turned  it  round,  and  placing  it  against  his  legs  with 
the  back  toward  him,  looked  steadfastly  at  the  happy  couple. 

"  Good  morning — good  night — your  sister — aspetta  !  per 
amor'  di  Dio  /"  cried  the  bewildered  Hassan,  giving  utterance 
to  all  the  English  he  could  remember,  and  seizing  the  bride  by 
the  arm. 

"  These  ladies  are  my  bridesmaids,"  said  Miss  Picklin,  point- 
ing to  the  missionaries'  wives  who  stood  by  in  their  bonnets 
and  shawls.  "  I  dare  say  he  expected  my  sister  would  come 
as  my  bridesmaid !"  she  added,  turning  to  Mr.  Griffin  to  ex- 
plain the  outbreak  as  she  understood  it. 

Hassan  beat  his  hand  upon  his  forehead,  walked  twice  up  and 
down  the  quarter-deck,  looked  around  over  the  Golden  Horn 
as  if  in  search  of  an  interpreter  to  his  feelings,  and  finally, 
walked  up  to  Miss  Picklin  with  a  look  of  calm  resignation,  and 
.addressed  to  her  and  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Griffin  a  speech  of  three 
minutes,  in  Italian.  At  the  close  of  it  he  made  a  very  cere- 
monious salaam,  and  offered  his  hand  to  the  bride  ;  and,  as 
no  one  present  understood  a  syllable  of  what  he  had  intended 
to  convey  in  his  address,  it  was  received  as  probably  a  wel- 
come to  Turkey,  or  perhaps  a  formal  repetition  of  his  offer  of 
heart  and  hand.  At  any  rate,  Miss  Picklin  took  it  to  be  high 
time  to  blush  and  take  off  her  glove,  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Griffin 
then  bent  across  the  back  of  the  chair,  joined  their  hands  and 
went  through  the  ceremony,  ring  and  all.  The  ladies  came 


92  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

' 

up,  one  after  another,  and  kissed  the  bride,  and  the  gentlemen 
shook  hands  with  Hassan,  who  received  their  good  wishes  with 
a  curious  look  of  unhappy  resignation,  and  after  cutting  the 
cake  and  permitting  the  bride  to  retire  for  a  moment  to  calm 
her  feelings  and  put  on  her  bonnet,  the  bridegroom  made  rath- 
er a  peremptory  movement  of  departure,  and  the  happy  cou- 
ple went  offin  the  caique  toward  Dolma-batchi  amid  much  wa- 
ving of  handkerchiefs  from  the  missionaries,  and  hurrahs  from 
the  Salem  hands  of  the  Simple  Susan. 

And  now,  before  giving  the  reader  a  translation  of  the  speech 
of  Hassan  before  the  wedding,  we  must  go  back  to  some  little 
events  which  had  taken  place  one  month  previously  at  Constan- 
tinople. 

The  Nancy  arrived  off  Seraglio  Point  after  a  very  remark- 
able passage,  having  still  on  her  quarter  the  north-west  breeze 
which  had  stuck  to  her  like  a  bloodhound  ever  since  she  had 
left  Salem.  She  had  brought  it  with  her  to  Constantinople,  in- 
deed, for  twenty  or  thirty  vessels  which  had  been  long  wait- 
ing a  favourable  wind  to  encounter  the  adverse  current  of  the 
Bosphorus,  were  loosing  sails  and  getting  under  way,  and  the 
pilot,  knowing  that  the  destination  of  the  Nancy  was  also  to 
the  Black  Sea,  strongly  dissuaded  Captain  Brown  from  drop- 
ping anchor  in  the  Horn,  with  a  chance  of  losing  the  good  luck, 
and  lying,  perhaps  a  month,  wind-bound  in  harbor.  Under- 
standing that  the  captain's  only  object  in  stopping  was  to 
leave  the  two  ladies  with  Keui,  the  opium-merchant,  the  pilot, 
who  knew  his  residence  at  Dolma-batchi,  made  signal  for  a 
caique,  and  kept  up  the  Bosphorus.  Arriving  opposite  the  lit- 
tle village  of  which  Hassan's  house  was  one  of  the  chief  orna- 
ments, the  ladies  were  lowered  into  the  caique  and  sent  ashore 
— expecting,  of  course  to  be  received  with  open  arms  by  Mrs. 
Keui — and  then,  spreading  all  her  canvass,  the  swift  little 
schooner  sped  on  her  way  to  Trebisond. 

Hassan  sat  in  the  little  pavilion  of  his  house,  which  looked 
out  on  the  Bosphorus,  eating  his  pillau,  for  it  was  the  noon  of  a 
holiday,  and  he  had  not  been  that  morning  to  Galata.  Recog- 
nizing at  once  the  sweet  face  of  Phemie  as  the  caique  came 
near  the  shore,  he  flew  to  meet  her,  supposing  that  the  "  Sim- 
ple Susan"  had  arrived,  and  that  the  lady  of  his  love  had 


03 

chosen  to  come  and  seek  him.     The  reader  will  understand, 
of  course,  that  there  was  no  "  Mrs.  Keui." 

And  now  to  shorten  my  story. 

Mrs.  Brown  and  Phemie  were  in  Hassan's  own  house,  with 
no  other  acquaintance  or  protector  on  that  side  of  the  world, 
and  there  was  no  possibility  of  escaping  a  true  explanation. 
The  mistake  was  explained,  and  explained  to  Brown's  satis- 
faction. Phemie  was  the  "  daughter"  of  Captain  Picklin,  to 
whom  the  offer  was  transmitted,  and  as,  by  blessed  luck,  the 
NancyAhad  outsailed  the  Simple  Susan,  Providence  seemed  to 
have  chosen  to  set  right ,  for  once,  the  traverse  of  true  love. 
The  English  embassy  was  at  Burgurlu,  only  six  miles  above, 
on  the  Bosphorus,  and  Hassan  and  his  mother  and  sisters,  and 
Mrs.  Brown  and  Phemie  were  soon  on  their  way  thither  in 
swift  caiques,  and  the  happy  couple  were  wedded  by  the  En- 
glish chaplain.  The  arrival  of  the  Simple  Susan  was  of  course 
looked  for,  by  both  Hassan  and  his  bride,  with  no  little  dismay. 
She  had  met  with  contrary  winds  on  the  Atlantic,  and  had 
been  caught  in  the  Archipelago  by  a  Levanter,  and  from  the 
damage  of  the  last,  she  had  been  obliged  to  come  to  anchor  off 
the  little  island  of  Paros  and  repair.  This  had  been  a  job  of 
six  weeks,  and  meantime  the  Nancy  had  given  them  the  go-by 
and  reached  Constantinople. 

Hassan  was  daily  on  the  look-out  for  the  brig  in  his  trips  to 
town,  and  on  the  morning  of  her  arrival,  his  mind  being  put 
at  ease  for  the  day  by  his  glance  toward  the  sea  of  Marmora, 
the  stumbling  so  suddenly  and  so  unprepared  on  the  object  of 
his  dread,  completely  bewildered  and  unnerved  him.  Through 
all  his  confusion,  however,  and  all  the  awkwardness  of  his  sit- 
uation, there  ran  a  feeling  of  self-condemnation,  as  well  as 
pity  for  Miss  Picklin;  and  this  had  driven  him  to  the  catas- 
trophe described  above. 

He  felt  that  he  owed  her  some  reparation,  and  as  the  religion 
in  which  he  was  educated  did  not  forbid  a  plurality  of  wives, 
and  there  was  [no  knowing  but  possibly  she  might  be  inclined 
to  "  do  in  Turkey  as  Turkeys  do,"  he  felt  it  incumbent  on  him- 
self to  state  the  fact  of  his  previous  marriage,  and  then  offer  her 
the  privilege  of  becoming  Mrs.  Keui,  No.  2,  if  she  chose  to 


94  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

accept.  As  he  had  no  English  at  his  command,  he  stated  his 
dilemma  and  made  his  offer  in  the  best  language  he  had — Ital- 
ian— and  with  the  results  the  reader  has  been  made  acquainted. 
Of  the  return  passage  of  Miss  Picklin,  formerly  Mrs.  Keui, 
under  the  charge  of  Captain  and  Mrs.  Brown,  in  the  schooner 
Nancy,  I  have  never  learned  the  particulars,  She  arrived  at 
Salem  in  very  good  health,  however,  and  has  since  been  dis- 
tinguished principally  by  her  sympathy  for  widows — based  on 
what,  I  cannot  very  positively  say.  She  resides  at  present  in 
Salem  with  her  father,  Captain  Picklin,  who  is  still  the  con- 
signee of  the  house  of  Keui,  having  made  one  voyage  out  to 
see  the  children  of  his  daughter  Phemie  and  strengthen  the  mer- 
cantile connection.  His  old  age  is  creeping  on  him,  undistin- 
guished by  anything  except  the  little  monomania  of  reading  the 
letters  from  his  son-in-law  at  least  a  hundred  times,  and  then 
wafering  them  up  over  the  fireplace  of  his  counting-room — in 
doubt,  apparently,  whether  he  rightly  understands  the  contents. 


THE    MINIATURE. 

WILLIAM  was  holding  in  his  hand 

The  likeness  of  his  wife  — 
Fresh  as  if  touched  by  fairy  wand, 

With  beauty  grace  and  life. 
He  almost  thought  it  spoke ;  —  he  gazed 

Upon  the  treasure  still, 
Absorbed,  delighted  and  amazed, 

To  view  the  artist's  skill. 

"This  picture  is  yourself,  dear  Jane, 

'Tis  drawn  to  Nature  true,: 
I've  kissed  it  o'er  and  o'er  again, 

It  is  so  much  like  you." 
"And  has  it  kissed  you  back,  my  dear?' 

"Why  —  no  —  my  love!"  said  he. 
"Then,  William,  it  is  very  clear, 

'Tis  not  at  all  like  me!" 


THE  PRINTER'S   BOOK.  95 


EXTRACT   FROM  AN   ADDRESS,  DELIVERED   BEFORE   THE  TRADES' 
UNION,  IN  THE  CITY  OF  NEW- YORK. 

BY      ELY     MOORE. 

INTELLECT,  after  all,  is  the  lever  by  which  the  world  is 
moved.  I  shall  embrace  this  opportunity,  therefore,  of  dwell- 
ing at  some  length  upon  the  importance  of  cultivating  it.  I 
regard  this  subject  of  much  more  importance  to  your  interests 
and  welfare,  than  any  other  which  could  be  introduced  to  your 
consideration  at  this  time.  Were  I  to  discourse  for  a  month, 
or  a  year  concerning  your  rights  and  grievances — the  utility 
and  importance  of  your  vocations — and  the  necessity  of  union — 
I  doubt  whether  you  would  be  either  much  wiser  or  better  for 
it.  You  have  complained  long  enough,  in  all  conscience,  to 
have  discovered  by  this  time,  the  reason  of  your  complaints. — 
You  feel  the  disadvantages  under  which  you  labor,  but  seem 
to  be  at  a  loss  how  to  correct  the  evil.  The  true  cause  of  your 
grievances  appears  to  have  escaped  your  notice.  All  the  means 
necessary  to  elevate  your  standing,  and  establish  your  welfare 
upon  a  more  secure  and  stable  basis,  are  a  greater  confidence 
in,  and  a  more  liberal  feeling  towards  each  other  ;  and  above 
all,  a  greater  exercise  of  MENTAL  INDUSTRY.  I  am  aware  that 
many  ingenuous  individuals  contend,  that  the  great  body  of  the 
producing  classes  understand  their  interests  perfectly,  and  that 
to  assert  the  contrary,  is  to  slander  them.  If  this  be  true,  why 
have  they  complained  and  suffered,  and  suffered  and  complained 
for  centuries  ?  Or  why  do  they  suffer  and  complain  now  ? — 
They  have  ever  possessed  the  numerical  strength,  the  physical 
force,  and  had  they  not  wanted  intelligence  to  direct  their 
power,  is  it  reasonable  to  suppose  that  they  would  have  endured 
all  the  evils  that  have  been  heaped  upon  them  by  the  managing 
and  intriguing  few  ?  It  would  be  just  as  reasonable  to  affirm, 
that  a  man  understood  his  wants  and  consulted  his  interests,  who 
with  a  loaf  of  bread  and  a  bottle  of  water  in  his  possession,  was 


96  THE    PRINTER'S   BOOK. 

perishing  with  hunger  and  thirst!  The  reason  why  the  great 
majority  of  mankind  have  been  held  in  servitude  by  the  few — 
and  the  main  cause  of  the  disparity  in  the  condition  and  circum- 
stances of  the  same  people,  is  a  want  of  intellectual  exertion — 
of  mental  industry,  on  the  part  of  the  many.  Men,  in  general, 
are  habitually  indolent  in  mind,  and  sooner  than  exert  their 
own  understandings,  would  prefer  to  be  guided  by  the  under- 
standings of  others.  Rather  than  task  their  own  intellectual 
faculties  in  analyzing  and  investigating  the  laws,  whether  phy- 
sical, moral  or  political,  by  which  they  are  governed,  would 
trust  to  chance,  and  abide  the  consequences.  So  long  as  the 
great  body  of  the  people  choose  to  be  mental  idlers,  so  long  they 
will  remain  mental  and  bodily  bondmen — mere  slaves  to  the 
more  thinking  and  intellectual  few.  And  unless  they  cultivate 
their  understandings,  and  establish  a  system  of  severe  mental 
discipline,  they  may  complain  in  vain — in  vain  organize — in 
vain  form  Unions  and  Associations. 

For  proof,  that  a  great  majority  of  mankind  are,  and  ever 
have  been,  mentally  indolent,  I  would  not  only  refer  you  to  the 
follies  and  prevailing  abuses  of  the  day,  but  to  the  past  history 
of  the  human  family.  Look,  for  a  moment,  at  the  false  doc- 
trines, the  puerile  theories,  and  monstrous  absurdities  that  have 
prevailed  for  ages  and  ages,  for  centuries  and  centuries. 
The  doctrines  of  Aristotle,  for  example,  the  founder  of  the 
Peripatetic  school,  held  the  world  in  absolute  mental  vassal- 
age for  more  than  two  thousand  years.  And  those  who 
pretended  to  think  at  all,  during  that  period,  were  busied 
in  speculations  concerning  occult  qualities  and  imaginary 
essences;  and  an  acquaintance  with  certain  terms,  such  as 
formality,  individuality,  quiddity,  infinity,  intention  and 
remission,  proportion  and  degree,  with  other  equally  unmean- 
ing and  abstract  notions,  constituted  the  philosophy  of  former 
ages.  The  potency  of  Aristotle's  opinions  was  not  only 
felt  and  acknowledged  by  the  heathen  world,  but  even  by 
Christians,  Jews  and  Mahometans.  Not  only  Europe,  but 
Africa  and  Asia  bowed  to  his  notions,  and  acknowledged 
his  sway.  Indeed,  such  was  the  influence  —  I  had  almost 
said,  such  was  the  omnipotency  of  the  Aristotelian  subtle- 
ties over  the  minds  of  men,  that  even  the  thunders  of  the 


TH  SPRINTER'S    BOOK,  97 

I 

Vatican,  awful  as  they  were  at  that  period,  tailed  to  impede 
their  dissemination  ;  and  the  dialectics,  physics  and  meta- 
physics of  the  Stagyrite  Were  introduced  into  the  University 
of  Paris,  by  statute,  the  Decree  of  Pope  Innocent  to  the 
contrary  notwithstanding.  During  the  reign  of  Francis  the 
First,  it  was  made  a  punishable  offence  to  question  the  infal- 
libility of  the  Aristotelian  doctrines.  And  in  fact,  in  many 
of  the  Universities  of  Europe,  it  was  made  obligatory  by  law 
to  follow  Aristotle  as  the  only  guide !  What  a  comment 
upon  the  wisdom  and  sagacity  of  man  !  What  a  melan- 
choly evidence  of  the  credulity,  apathy  and  indolency  of  the 
human  mind !  The  ingenious  nonsense  of  one  individual 
befooled  the  world  for  generations  and  generations ;  and  had 
not  BACON  lived,  the  wand  of  the  enchanter,  perchance,  had 
still  retained  its  magic.  But  the  philosophy  of  reason  and 
common  sense,  as  laid  down  by  Lord  Bacon  in  his  Novum 
Organttm,  overthrew,  at  once  and  forever,  the  fanciful  theo- 
ries, the  chimerical  systems,  and  sublimated  follies  of  the 
Scholastics,  Yet  such  is  the  mental  indolency  of  man,  that 
I  question  whether  there  be  one  out  of  fifty,  even  among 
those  who  make  pretensions  to  literature  and  science,  that 
are  thoroughly  and  practically  acquainted  with  the  inductive 
or  experimental  system,  of  philosophy  —  or  with  any  other 
system,  for  that  matter* 

The  Ptolemaic  system  of  astronomy,  which  mistook  the 
apparent  motions  of  the  heavenly  bodies  for  the  real  ones, 
and  supposed  the  whole  universe  to  be  carried  round  the 
earth  once  in  every  twenty-four  hours,  was  recognized  and 
acknowledged,  by  even  the  learned,  for  ages.  During  the 
period  which  this  system  obtained,  the  most  visionary  notions 
were  regarded  by  mankind  as  astronomical  and  philosophical 
truths  ;  — and  those  who  could  discourse  of  centrics  and  ex- 
centrics  —  of  cycles,  epicicles,  and  crystalline  orbs,  were  sup- 
posed to  be  acquainted  with  the  theory  of  the  solar  sys- 
tem, and  accordingly,  dubbed  astronomers.  But  at  length  a 
thinker,  a  reasoner,  the  immortal  Copernicus,  came  upon  the 
stage,  and  the  ancient  hypothesis  was  exploded,  and  the  sub- 
lime science  of  astronomy  established  upon  the  only  true  and 
infallible  basis,  demonstration.  But  alas,  for  the  indolency 

12 


98 

of  the  hum&n  mind,  not  one  in  ten,  even  among  those  who 
are  considered  well  informed,  are  conversant  with  either  the 
Ptolemaean  or  Copernican  system  of  astronomy.  Not  only  in 
philosophy  and  the  sciences,  but  also  in  the  policy  of  nations 
and  in  the  laws  and  institutions  of  state  have  the  great  mass 
of  mankind  exhibited  a  fatal  lethargy — -a  culpable  supine- 
ness  of  mind  ;  and  most  grievously  have  they  suffered  for 
their  folly.  Whilst  one  set  of  politicians  were  amusing  the 
people,  by  attempting  to  prove  that  the  only  true  foundation 
of  government  was  an  original  contract,  incapable  of  revis- 
ion or  amendment,  and  in  which,  it  was  stipulated  to  surren- 
der to  a  certain  line  or  family  of  princes  the  rule  of  the 
state,  and  that  this  covenant  was  necessarily  and  perpet- 
ually binding,  always  subjecting  the  majority  to  the  will  and 
control  of  the  minority;  —  another  class,  but  whose  princi- 
ples were  equally  inimical  to  the  interests  of  the  people, 
were  contending  that  "  Divine  Right,"  or  "  Legitimacy,"  was 
the  only  true  foundation.  This  doctrine  of  the  Divine  Right, 
held,  that  the  warrant  by  which  the  king  and  his  hereditary 
counsellors  rule  the  state,  was  no  less  than  the  will  of  God, 
and  consequently,  that  resistance  to  the  sovereign  on  the 
part  of  the  people,  was  not  only  unlawful,  but  sacrilegous  ; 
and  such  was  the  blind  infatuation  ^of  the  people,  that  in  the 
strife  of  the  contending  parties,  they  lost  sight  of  the  fact, 
that  let  which  would  triumph,  their  situation  would  remain 
the  same  —  that  coercion  was  the  real  foundation  of  either 
system  —  and  that  both  recognized  them  as  mere  subjects 
and  vassals.  Mankind,  almost  universally,  have  lived  and 
died  ignorant  of  the  fact,  that  the  only  righteous  system  of 
government,  was  that,  which  was  founded  upon  the  will  of 
the  majority,  and  administered  by  persons  freely  chosen  by 
the  people.  And  when  the  immortal  JEFFERSON  declared  that 
'*  all  men  were  created  free  and  equal,"  man  began  to  sigh  over 
his  long  lost  rights ;  was  astonished  that  he  had  never  dis- 
covered the  important  truth  before  ;  marvelled  that  the  world 
had  slumbered  so  long  and  so  profoundly  over  its  privileges, 
jts  interests  and  its  immunities — and  was  surprised  that  the 
discovery  had  never  been  made  before,  that  the  majority  should 
govern,  and  that  the  people  were  the  o»ly  rightful  sovereigns, 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  99 

What  a  humiliating  picture  of  man's  stupidity  and  mental 
degradation  does  this  one  circumstance  present !  What  a  com- 
ment on  the  pride  and  wisdom  of  this  God-like  being  —  "  this 
destined  heir  of  immortality  !"  And  where  lies  the  fault  ?  with 
man's  creator?  Not  so — no,  not  so  ;  but  with  the  creature. 
Man,  alone,  is  culpable.  A  neglect  to  exercise  the  faculties 
which  God  has  given  him,  is  the  cause  of  all  his  wrongs  —  of 
all  his  misfortunes  —  of  all  the  difficulties  and  disasters  that 
beset  him  through  life. 

What  can  be  more  humiliating  to  the  philosopher,  or  dis- 
couraging to  the  philanthropist,  than  the  reflection  that  a 
majority  of  mankind  rather  seek  to  kill  time  than  improve  it ! 
It  is  generally  those  who  need  instruction  most,  that  strive  least 
to  obtain  it ;  and  hence  the  more  ignorant  a  man  is,  the  less 
does  he  appreciate  the  value  and  importance  of  the  winged 
hours.  Who,  that  is  acquainted  with  the  delights  of  know- 
ledge, with  the  value  of  reflection,  and  the  charms  of  contem- 
plation, but  must  hear  with  deep  regret  those  who  have  never 
endeavored  to  profit  by  the  past,  complaining  of  the  tardiness 
of  time  and  sighing  for  the  future  ?  And  why  should  man  seek 
to  pass  his  time  in  idleness,  or  in  vain  and  unprofitable  pur- 
suits ?  Why  neglect  to  cultivate  the  mental  faculties  which 
God  has  given  him  ?  He  can  plead  no  excuse  in  extenuation. 
Neither  nature  nor  circumstances  can  furnish  him  with  a  suffi- 
cient apology  for  such  delinquency.  If  deprived  of  the  advan- 
tages of  an  early  education,  the  more  anxious  and  industri- 
ous should  he  be  to  obtain  one.  And  if  so  fortunate  as  to 
have  acquired  more  information  than  his  neighbors,  the 
more  liberal  he  should  be  in  the  dispensation  of  his  know, 
ledge.  Placed  in  a  world  rife  with  interest,  replete  with 
curious  varieties,  and  pregnant  with  unexplored  phenomena, 
man  is  urged  by  every  motive,  by  every  inducement,  to  ac- 
quaint himself  as  far  as  possible,  with  the  nature  and  designs 
of  that  creation  of  which  he  forms  so  interesting  and  import- 
ant a  feature.  He  is  called  upon  by  every  consideration,  to 
devote  his  time  and  his  energies  to  the  ascertainment  and 
development  of  those  truths,  whether  physical,  political  or 
moral,  which  concern  the  welfare  of  man:  and  he  who  neg- 
lects to  perform  those  duties,  contravenes,  as  far  as  in  him  lies, 
the  purposes  of  his  creation. 


100  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

A  blind  veneration  for  antiquity,  originating  in  the  credu- 
lity and  indolency  of  the  human  mind,  is  one  great  source 
of  error  and  ignorance.  Men  find  less  trouble  and  labor  in 
adopting  tho  opinions  of  others  than  in  investigating  and 
forming  opinions  of  their  own  ;  and  hence  their  willingness 
to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  their  ancestors.  So  long  as  men 
act  upon  the  principle,  that  the  antiquity  of  an  opinion,  or 
the  universality  with  which  it  has  been  received,  is  an  indu- 
bitable evidence  of  its  truth,  so  long  will  they  maintain  and 
propagate  error  and  falsehood.  Would  men  but  reflect,  that 
the  indolent  and  ignorant  have  ever  outnumbered  the__rea- 
soning  and  intellectual  ;  and  that  the  more  ancient  an  opinion, 
the  nearer  it  approaches  to  the  legendnry  and  fabulous 
times,  they  would  not  so  readily  estimate  its  worth  by  the 
number  of  its  votaries,  or  the  antiquity  of  its  existence.  Shall 
I  be  told,  that  but  comparatively  few  are  capable  of  becom- 
ing habitual  thinkers  and  correct  reasoners  —  that  nature 
has  withheld  her  intellectual  gifts  from  the  great  majority  of  her 
children,  and  decided  that  they  should  be  governed  and  con- 
troled  by  a  chosen  and  favored  few  ?  Let  no  man  so  far 
presume  to  question  the  justice  and  goodness  of  the  Univer- 
sal Parent.  I  am  aware,  however,  that  there  exists  a  dis- 
parity in  the  minds  and  capacities  of  men  ;  and  I  am  also 
aware,  that  that  disparity  arises  in  a  great  degree  from  the  voli- 
tion of  the  creature.  Such  is  the  habitual  negligence  of  men 
and  so  prone  are  they  to  trifles,  that  a  majority  of  them  feel 
a  deeper  interest  in  the  displays  of  necromancy,  than  in  the 
demonstrations  of  philosophy ;  and  would  listen  with  greater 
attention  to  the  ravings  of  a  fanatic,  or  the  pratings  of  a 
parrot,  than  to  the  thunders  of  Sinai,  or  a  voice  from  heaven. 
And  why  this  abuse  of  reason,  this  poverty  of  mind  and 
dereliction  of  thought  ?  Does  the  cause  necessarily  exist 
in  man's  nature  and  constitution  ?  By  no  means  —  but  in 
his  habits  and  his  will.  The  majority  of  distinguished  indi- 
viduals, owe  their  elevation  to  the  moral  qualities,  rather 
than  to  native  superiority  of  intellect.  The  truth  of  this 
position  is  strikingly  exemplified  in  the  life  and  achievements 
of  CARSTEV  XIEBUHR.  Born  a  peasant  in  a  remote  corner 
of  an  obscure  province,  far  removed  from  all  the  facilities 


•''',»,;       ;  *,  ";'»  I*; 
THE      P  R  I  X  T  F.  R '  fl      BOOK.  101 

of  acquiring  information  —  poor  and  an  orphan  —  gifted 
but  moderately  by  nature  —  with  a  memory  not  remarkably 
retentive,  and  his  ability  of  acquiring  knowledge  the  most 
common  —  yet,  notwithstanding  all  these  un  propitious  cir- 
cumstances, he  became  by  dint  of  perseverance  and  indefa- 
tigable industry,  one  of  the  most  distinguished  men  of  his 
age.  His  memory  will  survive  and  flourish — be  honored 
and  revered  while  science  has  a  friend,  or  virtue  an  admi- 
rer. 

Of  what  benefit  would  the  native  genius  of  a.  NEWTON  or 
a  LIEBNITZ  have  been  to  themselves,  or  to  the  world,  with- 
out the  aid  of  method  and  mental  industry  ?  Not  by  intuition 
but  by  the  deductions  of  reason,  was  the  latter  enabled  to 
discover  the  order  of  fluxions,  or  the  differential  calculus  — 
and  the  former,  the  laws  of  universal  gravitation.  *  It  was 
industry  and  mental  discipline,  that  enabled  the  immortal 
TULLY  to  sustain  for  a  season,  the  fortunes  of  degenerate 
and  sinking  Rome  —  that  enabled  NAPOLEON  to  control  the 
destinies  of  Europe  —  and  FRANKLIN  to  follow  nature  to  her 
hiding  place,  and  pluck  the  master-secret  from  her  bosom. 

All  men,  when  their  jealousies  and  prejudices  are  quies- 
cent, admire  genius,  and  willingly  do  homage  to  intellectual 
greatness — nay,  regard  the  master-spirits  of  intelligence,  as 
beings  almost  superhuman ;  arid  hence,  the  ancients  deified 
their  sages  and  benefactors  —  and  hence,  the  moderns 
speak  of  PLATO,  as  the  divine  —  of  GALILEO  and  KEPLER  — 
of  LA  GRANGE  and  LA  PLACE  —  of  MILTON  and  SHAK- 
SPEARE  —  of  JEFFERSON  and  FRANKLIN,  as  "  the  immortal'1 
And  is  it  not  extraordinary,  that  men  should  idolize  qualities 
in  others,  which  they  neglect  to  cultivate  in  themselves?  Is 
it  not  strange,  that  the  love  of  mental  ease  should,  so  often, 
nay,  so  generally,  triumph  over  all  the  aspirations  of  a  gen- 
erous ambition — over  every  impulse,  every  desire  for  intel- 
lectual eminence  ? 

Most  men  are  willing  to  admit,  (and  feel  a  secret  pride 
in  the  admission,)  that  when  God  said  "Let  us  make  man  in 
our  own  image,"  he  meant  that  the  resemblance  should  con- 
sist in  the  intellectual  character  and  qualification  of  man. 
Admitting  the  correctness  of  this  interpretation,  it  follows, 


'•  •  •»    )>«  *  *  .:• 

102  THE 

that  in  proportion  as  we  advance  in  knowledge,  in  that  ratio 
do    we  approximate   to    the   character   and   likeness   of  our 
Creator.     And  of  consequence,  as   we  remain  stationary,  or 
retrograde,    do    we    assimilate    to    the    brutes   that    perish. 
There  are  none  but  would   startle  with  horror  at  the  reflec- 
tion,  that  they  resembled  in  form  and  face  the   ape  or  the 
elephant  ;  and  yet,  strange  and  paradoxical  as  it  may  appear, 
the  majority  of  mankind,  rather  than  task  their  mental  pow- 
ers,  would  prefer   to  live   and  die   resembling  in  mind  and 
habits  the  ox  and  the  ass.     Be  stimulated  then,  my  friends, 
by  the   reflection,   that  every    acquisition    of  knowledge,   if 
properly    applied,    elevates   your    character,  augments    your 
happiness,  and  increases  and  strengthens   your    resemblance 
to  your  Creator.     I  would   not   have  you  understand,  how- 
ever, that  the  mere  acquisition  of  knowledge,  or  what  is  gen- 
erally called  an  education,  is  sufficient  to  render  you  either 
wise  or   virtuous.      Man  is  too  apt  to   learn  mechanically: 
and  his  knowledge,  when  mechanical,  is  of  but   little  more 
service  or  utility  to  him,  than  is  the  faculty  of  articulating 
certain  words  to  the  parrot  or  the  jackdaw.     Without  severe  | 
mental  training,   and     an   assiduous    cultivation   of    the  just   i 
powers  of  thought,  and  the  general  but  strict  regulation  of   : 
the  faculties  of  the   mind,   the  great  purposes  of  education 
are  seldom    if  ever    accomplished.     He  who  has  treasured 
up    much   information,   regardless   of  system   or  method,  is 
admirably  described  in  the  following  couplet,  by  England's 
greatest  didactic  poet, — 

"  A  bookful  blockhead  —  ignorantly  read 
With  loads  of  leajned  lumber  in  his  head." 

The  value  of  our  acquirements  depends,  not  so  much  upon 
their  extent  or  variety,  as  upon  the  manner  and  capacity 
with  which  they  are  applied.  When  men  learn  how  to 
think,  they  soon  begin  to  think  correctly.  No  precocity  of 
genius — no  expansion  of  native  intellect  —  no  acquisition 
of  knowledge,  can  render  men  wise  and  useful  without  they 
know  how  to  direct  their  powers  and  use  their  wdsdom. 
How  strong  the  propriety  then,  nay,  how  imperative  the  duty* 
especially  in  a  government  like  ours,  where  the  public  voice 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  103 

is  omnipotent,  where  the  destinies  of  the  republic  are  com- 
mitted to  the  hands  of  its  citizens,  where  government  is  a 
deposit  entrusted  alike  to  all,  and  where  all  are  accountable 
for  the  administration  of  its  affairs,  that  all  should  be  ac- 
quainted with  its  character  and  genius,  and  capable  of  inves- 
tigating the  causes  that  may  secure  its  stability,  or  accelerate 
its  destruction.  Our  freedom,  be  it  remembered,  is  not  the 
prize  of  our  winning  —  not  the  fruit  of  our  own  procuring. 
No  —  we  stand  in  the  attitude  of  passive  recipients  —  mere 
inheritors  of  the  boon :  and  without  eternal  vigilance  on  our 
parts,  that  which  was  achieved  for  us  by  heroic  sires,  will 
be  wrested  from  us  by  usurpers  and  political  marauders. 
Our  only  security  consists  in  the  general  dissemination  of  in- 
telligence, and  especially  of  political  intelligence.  Political 
knowledge  and  political  servitude  are  utterly  incompatible. 
The  existence  of  the  one  pre-supposes  the  destruction  of  the 
other.  Where  the  one  begins,  the  other  ends. 


THE  IDEAL  OF  A  TRUE  LIFE. 


BY    HORACE     GREELET. 

THERE  is,  even  on  this  side  the  grave,  a  haven  where  the 
storms  of  life  break  not,  or  are  felt  but  in  gentle  undulations  of 
the  unrippled  and  mirroring  waters — an  oasis,  not  in  the  des- 
ert, but  beyond  it — a  rest,  profound  and  blissful  as  that  of  the 
soldier  returned  forever  from  the  dangers,  the  hardships  and 
turmoil  of  war,  to  the  bosom  of  that  dear  domestic  circle,  whose 
blessings  he  never  prized  at  half  their  worth  till  he  lost  them. 

This  haven,  this  oasis,  this  rest,  is  a  serene  and  hale  old  age. 
The  tired  traveller  has  abandoned  the  dusty,  crowded,  and 
jostling  highway  of  life,  for  one  of  its  shadiest  and  least  noted 


104  THE    PRINTER'S    OOOK. 

by-lanes.  The  din  of  traffic  and  of  worldly  strife  has  no  longer 
magic  for  his  ear — 'the  myriad  footfall  of  the  city's  stony  walks 
— is  but  noise  or  nothing  to  him  now.  He  has  run  his  race  of 
toil,  or  trade,  or  ambition.  His  day's  work  is  accomplished* 
and  he  has  come  home  to  enjoy,  tranquil  and  unharrassed,  the 
splendor  of  the  sunset — the  milder  glories  of  late  evening.  Ask 
not  whether  he  has,  or  has  not,  been  successful,  according  to 
the  vulgar  standard  of  success.  What  matters  it  now  whether 
the  multitude  has  dragged  his  chariot,  rending  the  air  with 
idolizing  acclamations,  or  howled,  like  wolves  on  his  track,  an 
he  fled  by  night  from  the  fury  of  those  he  had  wasted  his  vig- 
or to  serve.  What  avails  it  that  broad  lands  have  rewarded 
his  toil,  or  that  all  fvis,  at  the  last  moment,  been  stricken  from 
his  grasp?  Ask  not  whether  he  brings  into  retirement  the 
wealth  of  the  Indies,  or  the  poverty  of  a  bankrupt — whether 
his  couch  be  of  down  or  rushes — his  dwelling  a  hut  or  a  man- 
sion. He  has  lived  to  little  purpose  indeed,  if  he  has  not  long 
since  realized  that  wealth  and  renown  are  not  the  true  ends  of 
exertion,  nor  their  absence  the  conclusive  proof,  of  ill-fortune, 
Whoever  seeks  to  know  if  hi%  career  has  been  prosperous  and 
brightening  from  its  outset  to  its  close — if  the  evening  of  his 
days  shall  be  genial  and  blissful — should  ask  not  for  broad  acres 
or  towering  edifices,  or  laden  coffers.  Perverted  old  age  may 
grasp  these  with  the  unyielding  clutch  of  insanity ;  but  they 
add  to  his  cares  and  anxieties,  not  to  his  enjoyments.  Ask, 
rather — Has  he  mastered  and  harmonized  his  erring  passions  1 
lias  he  lived  a  true  life? 

A  True  Life  ! — of  how  many  lives  does  each  hour  knell  the 
conclusion  !  and  how  few  of  them  are  true  ones  !  The  poor 
child  of  shame  and  sin  and  crime,  who  terminates  her  earthly 
being  in  the  clouded  morning  of  her  scarce  budded,  yet  blight- 
ed existence — the  desperate  felon  whose  blood  is  shed  by  the 
community,  as  the  dread  penalty  of  its  violated  law — the  mis- 
erable debauchee,  who  totters  down  to  his  loathsome  grave 
in  the  spring-time  of  his  years,  but  the  fullness  of  his  festering 
iniquities — these*  the  world  valiantly  affirms,  have  not  lived 
true  lives  !  Fearless  and  righteous  world  !  how  profound,  how 
discriminating  are  thy  judgments !  But  the  base  idolater  of 
self,  who  devotes  all  his  moments,  his  energies,  his  thoughts 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  105 

to  schemes  which  begin  and  end  in  personal  advantage  —  the 
grasper  of  gold,  and  lands  and  tenements  — the  devotee  of 
pleasure — the  man  of  ignoble  and  sinister  ambition  —  the  woman 
of  frivolity,  extravagance  and  fashion — the  idler,  the  gambler, 
the  voluptuary —  on  all  these  and  their  myriad  compeers,  while 
borne  on  the  crest  of  the  advancing  billow,  how  gentle  is  the 
reproof,  how  charitable  the  judgment  of  the  world !  Nay,  is 
not  even  our  dead  Christianity,  which  picks  its  way  so  daintily, 
cautiously  and  inoffensively,  —  which  regards  with  gentle  re- 
buke, and  is  regarded  with  amiable  toleration  by  some  of  the 
foremost  vices  of  the  times  ;  is  it  not  too  often  oblivious  of  its 
paramount  duty  to  teach  men  how  to  live  worthily  and  nobly  ? 
Are  there  not  thousands  to  whom  its  inculcations,  so  far  as 
duties  to  man  are  concerned,  are  substantially  negative  in  their 
character  ? — who  are  fortified  by  its  teachings,  in  the  belief 
that  to  do  good  is  a  casualty,  and  not  a  frame  of  being — who 
are  taught  by  it  to  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  naked,  when 
they  thrust  themselves  upon  the  charity  of  portly  affluence,  but 
as  an  irksome  duty,  for  which  they  should  be  rewarded,  rather 
than  a  blessed  privilege,  for  which  they  should  be  profoundly 
grateful  ?  Of  the  millions  now  weekly  listening  to  the  min- 
istrations of  the  Christian  pulpit,  how  many  are  clearly,  vivid- 
ly impressed  with  the  great  truth,  that  each,  in  his  own  sphere, 
should  live  for  mankind,  as  Christ  did  for  the  redemption,  in- 
struction and  exaltation  of  the  race  • —  and,  that  the  power  to  do 
this  in  his  proper  sphere  abides  equally  with  the  humblest  as  the 
highest  ?  How  many  centuries  more  will  be  required  to  teach 
even  the  religious  world,  so  called,  the  full  meaning  of  the  term 
CHRISTIAN  ? 

A  true  life  must  be  simple  in  all  its  elements.  Animated  by 
one  grand  and  ennobling  impulse,  all  lesser  aspirations  find 
their  proper  places  in  harmonious  subservience.  Simplicity 
in  taste,  in  appetite,  in  habits  of  life,  with  a  corresponding  in- 
difference to  worldly  honors  and  aggrandizement,  is  the  natural 
result  of  the  predominance  of  a  divine  and  unselfish  idea.  Un- 
der the  guidance  of  such  a  sentiment,  Virtue  is  not  an  effort, 
but  a  law  of  nature,  like  gravitation.  It  is  Vice  alone  that  seems 
unaccountable  —  monstrous  —  well  nigh  miraculous.  Purity  is 

13  v  >  wit 


106  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

felt  to  be  as  necessary  to  the  mind,  as  health  to  the  body  j  and 
its  absence,  alike  the  inevitable  source  of  pain. 

A  true  life  must  be  calm.  A  life,  imperfectly  directed,  is 
made  wretched  through  distraction.  We  give  up  our  youth 
to  excitement,  and  wonder  that  a  decrepit  old  age  steals  upon 
us  so  soon.  We  wear  out  our  energies  in  strife  for  gold  or  fame, 
and  then  wonder  alike  at  the  cost  and  the  worthlessness  of  the 
meed.  "  Is  not  the  life  more  than  meat  ?"  Ay,  truly  !  but  how 
few  have  practically,  consistently,  so  regarded  it?  'And  little 
as  it  is  regarded  by  the  imperfectly  virtuous,  how  much  less 
by  the  vicious  and  the  worldling  ?  What  a  chaos  of  struggling 
emotions  is  exhibited  by  the  lives  of  the  multitude  ?  How  like 
to  the  wars  of  the  infuriated  animalculae  in  a  magnified  drop 
of  water,  is  the  strife  constantly  waged  in  each  little  mind  ! 
How  Sloth  is  jostled  by  Gluttony,  and  Pride  wrestled  with  by 
Avarice,  and  Ostentation  bearded  by  Meanness  !  The  soul  which 
is  not  large  enough  for  the  indwelling  of  one  virtue,  affords 
lodgment  and  scope  and  arena  for  a  hundred  vices.  But  their 
warfare  cannot  be  indulged  with  impunity.  Agitation  and 
wretchedness  are  the  inevitable  consequences,  in  the  midst  of 
which  the  flame  of  life  burns  flaringly  and  swiftly  to  its  close. 

A  true  life  must  be  genial  and  joyous.  Tell  me  not,  pale  an- 
chorite, of  your  ceaseless  vigils,  your  fastings,  your  scourgings. 
These  are  fit  offerings  to  Moloch,  not  to  our  Father.  The  man 
who  is  not  happy  in  the  path  he  has  chosen,  may  be  very  sure 
he  has  chosen  amiss,  or  is  self-deceived.  But  not  merely  hap- 
pier—  he  should  be  kinder,  gentler,  and  more  elastic  in  spirits, 
as  well  as  firmer  and  truer.  "  I  love  God  and  little  children," 
says  a  German  poet.  The  good  are  ever  attracted  and  made 
happier  by  the  presence  of  the  innocent  and  the  lovely.  And 
he  who  finds  his  religion  adverse  to,  or  a  restraint  upon,  the 
truly  innocent  pleasures  and  gayeties  of  life,  so  that  the  latter 
do  not  interfere  with  and  jar  upon  its  sublimer  objects,  may 
well  doubt  whether  he  has,  indeed,  "  learned  Jesus." 

The  Press  of  the  Revolution.  —  Its  leaders  set  up  the  col- 
umns of  Freemen,  whose  shooting  sticks  and  cannon  knocked 
the  form  of  Tyranny  into  pi. 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  107 


THE  JOUR.  PRINTER'S  MONUMENT. 


BY    B.    P.    SHILLABER. 


THE   sound  at  midnight  —  "the  steamer  is   in!" 

To   the   printer   comes   with   a   fearful   din, 

As  he  rouses  himself  from  his  sleep  profound, 

And  groans  as  he  calls   to  his  mind  the   sound, 

Like  Macbeth's  voice,   that  annoyed  him  sore, 

Saying  most  dismally  —  "sleep  no   more!" 

Then  the  black  night   drags    to  a  weary   close — 

He  is   drowsy   certain  —  perhaps   half  froze — 

And   'mid  lapses  of  work   strange  fancies   arise 

Perhaps  would  not   come  to   more  wakeful   eyes — 

Visions  indefinite,  dimly  defined, 

Flitting  like   shadows    over  his  mind, 

Strange  blendings  together  of  true  and  ideal, 

He  hardly  knows  which  is   the  false  or  the   real, 

And   a  notion  prevails   in  his  mind's  misty  hue, 

To   club  it  together  and  call  it  all  true ; 

Not  far  from  the  truth  is  the  vision  below 

Which  came  to   a  Typo  no  long  time   ago, 

And  struck   with  a  fit   some  reckon  sublime, 

He  lugged  out  his   pencil  and  "  did   it"  in  rhyme, 

Which   shows  to   "  all  men"  how  a  journeyman's  light 

Can   aid  in  dispelling  error's  dark  night, 

And   his  old   tools  and  toils,  like   gold   from  the   mine, 

In  wisdom's   alembic   as  diamonds   may  shine, 

And  hinting   a  fact,  affirmed  from  the  first, 

That  each  one's   profession   is  always   the  worst. 


108  THE   PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

Poor   Pi,   the   printer,  was   woesome  and  sick, 

And   he  laid  on   his  bed  to  die,; 
His   eye   was  glazed   and   his   breath  grew   thick, 
And    Death   with  his  dart  gave    Pi  a  stick, 
Life's   frail  bucket  he  over   did  kick, 

And   a   senseless  heap   lay   Pi. 

It  was    sad  to'  see   his   form   thus  laid, 

So  ghastly    and   so   stark ; 
Care   on  his   brow  deep  lines  had  made, 
And   if  ever  the   rays   of  joy  there  played, 
'Twas   but  for  a   moment   and  then  to   fade, 

Like   meteors  'mid   the  dark. 

His  body    was   placed  in  an  humble  case, 

And   borne   from   his   garret   dim; 
And  sighs  were  heaved   that  in  Death's  embrace 
Thus   had   determined   his  hard   run  race ; 
Friends  prayed  for  his  soul   as  they   looked  on  his  face; 

What  were   tears  or  prayers  to  him? 

They  left  him  to   moulder  beneath  the   sod, 

And  return  to   primal   dust; 
They   knew  he'd  long  felt   affliction's   rod — 
Small   comfort  was   there   in   the   path   he   had   trod, 
And   they   felt   that   while   he   mixed   with   the    clod 

His   spirit  was   with   the  just. 

Now  Time   passed   on,    long   years   rolled   by, 

And   Memory,    waked   the   past ; 
Then  was   sought   the  grave   of  the  printer   Pi, 
A   pillar  to   rear,    both   broad   and  high, 
As   if  to   atone  for  old  ill   to  try, 

And  justice   do   at  last. 

'Twas  no   marble   pile   that   upward   rose 

To   tower   amid   the    clouds ; 
Nor  granite   shaft  to  record   his   woes, 
Of  his   hopes  all   crushed   and   his   heart  all   froze  ; 
These   were   not   what   the   builders   chose 

To   draw   admiring   crowds. 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  109 

But  they  dragged  from   its   nook  the   ancient  press, 

That  of  yore   had   caused   him   pain ; 
The   "voice  of  thought"   which   through  his   distress, 
Had  spoken   in  tones   the   world  to   bless ; 
The  dust  of  years   on   its   frame   did  rest, 

And  many  a  time-worn  stain. 

They  made  it  their   chiefest   corner  stone, 

Then  piled   they   the    mass   amain ; 
The   crossed-legged  bank   'neath   a   heap   did   groan, 
The   ink-balls   and  the   trough  were  shown, 
The   ink-block,    cobweb  overgrown, 

The   mallet  and  the   plane. 

And   hard   old   cases,    in  grim  array, 

And   chases  thick  with   rust, 
And  quoin  drawers   long  since  thrown   away, 
And   relics   snatched  from  a  doomed   decay 
Were   brought   again   to   the   light   of  day, 

All   clothed  in  ancient  dust. 

Then   they  gathered  the  toil  and  the  mental  pain 

Which  had  marked  his  earthly  race  ; 
And  they   gathered  the  hours   to  him  all   vain, 
Where   others   had  reaped  the   accruing   gain 
And  the   bitter  thoughts  which  his  soul  did   stain, 

And  the   sweat    of  his   care-worn  face. 

A    crowning  piece   for  the  pile   they  sought, 

And  long  they   sought   in  vain ; 
Till  a  gleam  of  joy  or  two  they  brought, 
And  some  Saturday   nights  that  with  rest  were  fraught, 
And  moments   of  calm    and  pleasant  thought, 

When  fat  heM   chance  to   gain. 

Then  Wisdom's  light  was   shed  on  the   scene 

And  a   goodly   sight   was   there  ; 
The  incongruous   mass   had   changed  its   mien, 
And   glowing  bright   in   celestial  sheen, 
Its   summit  resting  the   stars   between, 

Rose   the   pile  through   the   upper   air. 


110 


And   Earth   grew   glad   amid   the  light 

Diffusive   in   its  ray; 

And  darkened   spots    came   grandly  bright 
With  new-found  radiance  bedight, 
As   sunshine   followeth   the   night, 

And  hailed   a  higher   day. 

Effulgently   beamed  its   glory  forth, 

And  then  from  far  and  nigh 
Came   sages  as   erst  when   Truth   had   birth, 
The   wise   and  mighty   children  of  earth, 
And  laid  the  tribute   of  mind  to  worth 

On  the  urn  of  the  printer  Pi. 

And  then  this  riddle  was   plainly  read ; 

That  he  lives  not  in  vain 
Who   wrestles   with   woe   to   heart  and   head, 
Till   the   breath  is  stilled  and  sense   is   dead, 
And   stretches   his  form   on   a   martyr's   bed 

That  a  darkened  world  may  gain. 


THE  PRESS. 

BY   WILLIAM   O.    BOURNE. 

A    MILLION    tongues    are    thine,    and    they    are    heard 
Speaking    of   hope    to    nations,    in    the    prime 
Of   freedom's    day,    to    hasten    on    the    time 

When    the    wide    world    of   spirit    shall    be    stirred 

With    higher    aims    than    now  —  when    man    shall    call 
Each    man    his    brother  —  each    shall    tell   to    each 
His    tale    of   love,    and    pure    and    holy    speech 

Be    music    for    the    soul's    high    festival; 

Thy  gentle  notes  are  heard,  like  choral  waves, 
Reaching  the  mountain,  hill,  and  quiet  vale — 
Thy  thunder-tones  are  like  the  sweeping  gale, 

Bidding  the  tribes   of  men  no  more  be   slaves ; 

And  earth's  remotest  island  hears  the   sound 

That  floats  on  ether   wings   the   earth   around! 


THE    PRINTER'S   BOOK.  Ill 


HOME, 


BY     BENJAMIN    J.     BRENfON* 


THERE    is   a    spot  that's    doubly    blest, 

A    Paradise   below, 
Where    peaceful    hearts    may    ever    rest. 

And   sweet   contentment   know. 
Where  joy  and  pleasure    fill   the   mind. 

And   care   to   other   realms    is    driven, 
And   where  the  weary   soul  may  find 

A   foretaste  of  the  joys   of  Heaven. 

Is   it  in  the   far   East  —  that  fairy-like  land. 

Where   blessings  are   showered  with   a  bountiful   hand, 

Where   men   gather   riches   and   wealth  without  toil, 

And   reap   without  labor  the   fruits    of  the    soil; 

Where   the  grand   works   of  art  raise   their   columns   on  high, 

And  towers   and   palaces   pierce   the  blue   sky; 

Where  all   that  is   fair   in   nature   is  seen, 

Where   all  the   year  round  the   forests  are  green, 

And  where  golden   streams  thro'  the  deep  valleys  flow? 

Is   it  there?      The  heart   answers — no. 

Is  it  in   the    deep   ocean  —  some   isle   of  the   sea, 
Where   the  heart  from  all   bondage   shall   ever   be   free : 
A   spot  that  proclaims   the  great   glory  of  God, 
By  the  foot  of  mankind   as  never  yet  trod. 
Thro'   a  sky  ever   clear,   where   the  sun  sheds  its    rays, 
And  animate   nature    speaks    the    Great   Maker's  praise, 
Where   the  hills   are  adorned  with  e'er  blooming  flowers, 
And  golden-plumed   birds  flit    among  the  green   bowers, — 
A   Paradise   here  —  an    Eden   below  — 
Is  it  there  ?      The   heart   answers  —  no. 


112  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 


Is  it   in   the  far   North  —  the   region  ,of  frost, 

That   seldom,    if   ever,    by   man   has  been   crossed; 

The  cold   dreary   land  that  encircles  the   pole, 

That  freezes   the    life-blood,  and   e'en  chills   the   soul: 

Where   the   cold   piercing   blast   sweeps  over  the    plains, 

And   winter   eternal,    in  deep  silence   reigns, 

Tho'   ages   roll   by;  where   no   verdure   is  seen, 

Save   the  dwarf    mountain   shrub,  or  the   pine   evergreen ; 

Where  the   beauties    of  earth  are   covered  with   snow? 

Is    it    there  ?      The  heart   answers  —  no. 

Then  where  is   the   land   that  by  Heaven   is   blest  ? 

The  heart  in   despondency    sighs ; 
And  where    may   the    wandering   spirit   find   rest? 

Oh,  where  ?     Thus   reason   replies  : 
In    search   of  that   place    'twere    folly   to    roam, 
The   spot   that   thou  seekest  is  here,  —  it  is  HOME. 


THE   GENTLE  BIRD 

• 
BY    GEORGE    P.    MORRIS. 


THE    gentle    bird    on    yonder    spray, 
That    sings    its    little    life    away, 
The    rose-bud    bursting    into    flower, 
And    glitt'ring    in    the    sun    and    shower, 
The    cherry    blossom    on    the    tree, 
Are    emblematic    all    of    thee. 

Yon    moon    that    sways    the    vassal    streams 
Like    thee    in    modest    beauty    beams ; 
So    shines    the    diamond    of    the    mine, 
And    the    rock    crystal    of    the    brine ; 
The    gems    of    heaven,    earth     and     sea, 
Are    blended  .all,    dear    maid,    in    thee ! 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  113 

EXTRACTS  FROM  AN   ADDRESS,  DELIVERED  BEFORE  THE  PROS- 
PECT TEMPERANCE  BENEVOLENT  SOCIETY. 

BY    ELY    MOORE. 


ALLOW  me  to  invite  your  attention  for  a  moment,  to  an  im- 
p  ortant  consideration  connected  with  the  subject  of  Temper- 
ance. It  is  well  known  to  every  intelligent  and  close  observer, 
that  the  class  of  individuals  most  vulnerable  to  the  vice  of  In- 
temperance, is  composed  of  men  who  inherit  from  the  Creator, 
in  an  eminent  degree,  the  qualities  and  attributes  which  do 
most  exalt  and  ennoble  the  nature  and  character  of  man.  In 
proportion  as  our  systems  are  delicately  and  exquisitely  strung, 
our  hearts  and  minds  are  sensitive  and  impressible.  The  man 
who  combines  in  his  nature  or  constitution,  an  ardent  temper- 
ament with  a  fruitful  imagination  —  those  elements  of  great- 
ness as  well  as  of  goodness  —  is  ever  the  most  inclined  to 
court  excitement,  however  deleterious  in  its  nature,  and  to  be 
swayed  and  swerved  by  its  influences.  The  more  yielding 
and  confiding  his  disposition,  the  more  open  and  generous  hia 
nature,  the  nobler  and  kindlier  his  impulses,  and  the  warmer 
and  richer  his  fancy,  the  more  readily  is  his  will  subjugated 
and  his  judgment  unhinged,  and,  consequently,  the  more  liable 
is  he  to  fall  into  temptation,  indulgence  and  excess.  Hence 
the  vice  of  Intemperance  is  rendered  doubly  odious  from  the 
fact  that  those  most  obnoxious  to  its  evils  are,  by  nature,  the 
most  brilliant,  as  well  as  the  most  amiable  and  lovely.  Not 
only  so,  but  the  infirmities  incident  to  the  more  unsuspecting 
and  generous  natures  are  sure  to  be  increased,  as  this  vice  is 
indulged ;  consequently,  those  whom  God  particularly  endows 
with  the  brighter  and  lovelier  attributes  of  humanity,  are  apt 
to  become,  through  the  instrumentality  of  this  evil,  the  ready 
dupes  and  victims  of  the  unprincipled,  the  calculating  and  the 
mercenary.  How  many  instances  can  you  not  call  to  mind, 
where  the  crafty  and  unscrupulous  have  taken  advantage  of 

14 


f!4  THE     PRfNTEfl'  SHOOK. 

this  weakness  in  their  fellow-man  to  defraud  and  undo  him  ? 
And  how  often  have  you  seen  the  noble,  the  generous  and  the 
philanthropic  become  knaves,  swindlers  and  misanthropists,  in 
consequence  of  the  wrongs,  the  injustice  and  the  ingratitude 
which  they  experience  at  the  hands  of  those  who  had  oft-times 
pledged  them  in  the  "  flowing  bowl,"  and  in  whom  they  had 
believed  and  confided. 

I  well  remember  an  instance  which  strongly  and  remark- 
ably illustrates  the  truth  of  what  has  just  been  advanced.  I 
allude  to  the  history  and  fortunes  of  a  dear  and  valued  friend 
of  my  youth  —  the  loved  companion  of  my  better  and  happier 
days.  Frederick,  for  so  J  shall  denominate  the  individual  in 
question  —  had  inherited  from  his  father  an  ample  estate.  His 
education  was  liberal,  his  family  connections  highly  respecta- 
ble and  his  prospects  in  life  cheering  and  brilliant.  Nature 
had  fashioned  him  in  her  favorite  mould  and  lavished  upon 
him  her  choicest  gifts.  His  figure  was  symmetrical  and  com- 
manding—  his  bearing  generous  and  noble  ^—  his  heart  was 
bold,  ardent,  affectionate ;  and  his  mind  deep,  liberal  and  ca- 
pacious. Than  him,  virtue  had  no  firmer  friend,  vice  no 
sterner  foe.  The  elevation,  the  happiness  and  welfare  of  his 
fellow-man,  his  common,  his  favorite  theme  j  and  the  one 
which  seemed  to  occupy  and  absorb  his  every  thought.  No 
selfish  views  were  permitted  to  occupy  his  mind,  nor  a  sordid 
feeljng  to  dwell  in  his  heart.  Truth,  sincerity  an4  beneyo^ 
Jence  were  the  objects  of  his  admiration,  and  of  his  idolatry, 
T,q  tfye  stprms,  the  strifes  and  the  stratagems  of  life,  he  was  a 
stranger.  To  the  hypocrisy,  the  duplicity  and  ingratitu4e  of 
the  world,  he  was  a  novice.  The  friend  of  all,  he  fondly  be- 
Jieved  that  all  were  friends  to  him.  Pure  in  heart  himself, 
he  suspected  no  guile  in  others ;  but  for  all  mankind  he  cher- 
ished a  fond  and  fraternal  feeling.  To  him  the  world  seemed 
pure  a§  well  as  bright.  In  his  imagination  it  was  a  world  of 
poetry  and  of  romance,  of  flowers  and  of  sunshine.  His  vision 
had  never  penetrated  its  mysteries  nor  yet  its  miseries.  Its 
gloomier  aspects,  its  cold  and  stern  realities  were  alike  unseen 
and  unfelt  by  him.  Its  tramp  had  not,  as  yet,  deadened  his 
pulse,  nor  had  the  rank  weeds  of  avarice,  lust  and  sensuality 
choked  up  the  portals  to  his  heart ;  but  life,  with  all  its  laugh 


BOOK.  115 

and  all  its  glee,  was  fresh  and  green  and  blithe  before  him. 
He  had  yet  to  learn  "  how  different  are  the  realities  of  life 
from  their  early  seemings."  Never  shall  I  forget  the  day  on 
which  he  attained  his  majority.  It  was  in  the  Spring  of  the 
year,  and  the  season  was  as  bright  and  beautiful  as  his  hopes 
were  blithe  and  brilliant.  I  recollect  that  he  called  on  me 
early  in  the  morning,  and  desired  me  to  accompany  him  in  a 
stroll  over  the  green  valleys,  and  amidst  the  mountain  wood- 
lands —  to  contemplate  the  fair  face  as  well  as  the  rugged 
form  of  nature,  to  listen  to  the  wild  bird  as  he  trolled  his  lay, 
and  to  look  upon  the  budding  leaves  and  the  bursting  flowers. 
Most  cheerfully  did  I  comply  with  his  request,  for  notwith- 
standing the  marked  disparity  of  our  situations  in  life  caused  us 
to  regard  the  world  through  a  different  medium,  there  yet  ex- 
isted between  us  a  kindred  sympathy  of  soul,  a  strong  and 
close  congeniality  of  feeling.  There  was  this  difference  be- 
tween us,  however  5  in  his  eyes  all  Was  truth,  loveliness  and 
harmony ;  and  his  eager  heart  leaped  forward  to  the  scenes 
and  duties  of  life,  as  to  a  "feast  and  a  revel."  But  not  so  mine. 
The  vicissitudes  and  discords  of  life,  had  even  at  that  early  age, 
cast  a  cloud  over  the  prospects  of  the  future.  My  youthful 
heart  had  already  felt  the  pangs  of  poverty,  of  neglect,  and  of 
hardship  so  that  even  the  beauties  of  nature,  as  well  as  the  most 
auspicious  creations  of  fancy  and  of  hope  were  all,  all  tinged 
with  gloom  and  melancholy.  My  fears  and  anticipations  at  that 
time  with  regard  to  the  future,  have  been  fully,  sadly  realized. 
But,  alas,  how  different  as  it  respected  the  fond  and  fervent 
imaginings  of  my  friend  !  The  visions  of  glory  which  burst 
upon  his  ravished  sight  were  doomed  to  go  down  in  night  and 
darkness.  He  had  no  sooner  launched  his  bark  upon  the 
ocean  of  life,  than  it  was  pursued  and  attacked  by  the  buca- 
niers  and  corsairs  of  the  social  world.  The  designing,  the 
selfish  and  the  avaricious  beset  him  at  every  step,  and  encoun- 
tered him  at  every  turn.  Through  the  intrigues  and  applian- 
ces of  the  cunning  and  the  crafty,  he  was  robbed  of  his  means', 
and  despoiled  of  his  honor  and  his  virtue.  Possessed  of  a 
social,  yielding  and  confiding  disposition,  he  was  first  seduced 
into  the  paths  of  intemperance,  and  then  into  those  of  crime 
and  ignominy.  He  first  lost  his  sober  habits,  and  then  his  for- 


116  THE   PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

tune ;  and  with  his  fortune  he  lost  both  friends  and  respect- 
ability.    Such  is  the  world.     When  I  last  saw  him  he  was 
the  inmate  of  a  dungeon.     He  had  violated  the  laws  of  his 
country,  and  was  then  suffering  the  penalty  due  his  crime. 
The  very  recollection  of  that  interview  rends  my  heart  and 
burns  my  brain.     But  a  few  short  years  had  intervened  be- 
tween the  time  when  last  we   parted  and  that  melancholy 
hour.     And  oh !  what  a  sad  and  desolating  change  had  been 
wrought  in  him  within  that  brief  period.     The  fires  of  love 
and  of  philanthropy  had  been  quenched  in  his  heart,  the  light 
of  genius  and  of  hope  was  extinguished  in  his  eye ;  all  power 
and  elasticity  had  forsaken  his  limbs,  and  that  once  strong  and 
gifted  man  stood  before  me  a  melancholy  monument  of  human 
folly   and  of  human  weakness,  —  like  "Sampson  eyeless  in 
Gaza,  at  the  mill  with  slaves."    The  barriers  between  vice 
and  virtue  had  been  prostrated,  the  deep  fountain  of  his  sym- 
pathies broken  up,  and  the  bitter  waters  of  animosity  and  of 
revenge  had  deluged  and  washed  out  the  last  kind  impulse  of 
his  nature.     Hope,  love  and  charity  had  perished  from  his 
heart,  and  his  sad  and  gloomy  soul  was  black  and  cheerless 
as  the  cold  and  moonless  midnight.     On  his  brow  the  lines  of 
care  and  of  crime  were  deeply  and  indelibly  graven ;  and  his 
bosom  ached  and  heaved  with  remorse,  hatred  and  despair. 
To  him,  the  glorious  sun  shone  in  vain,  for  his  sad  eyes  were 
no  longer  permitted  to  witness  its  brightness ;    and  in  vain 
to  him,  did  his  ancestral  trees  spread  out  their  patriarchal 
branches,  for  his  sylvan  sports  had  passed  away  forever,  and 
his   fireside  altars   were  never   more   to  be    crowned    with 
flowers.     I  addressed  him  in  the  language  of  kindness  —  re- 
minded him  of  our  early  friendship,  and  he  jeered  and  laughed 
at  me. 

"  Friendship !"  he  repeated,  in  a  sneering  and  sarcastic  tone, 
"what  is  that?     What  is  friendship?" 

"  It  is  that  feeling  in  the  heart,"  I  replied,  "  which  disposes 
one  person  to  promote  the  happiness  and  welfare  of  another." 

"  Then,"  said  he,  "  I  have  no  friend  —  I  am  no  friend  /" 

"  But  you  do  not  doubt  the  existence  of  the  feeling  ?"  I  re- 
marked. 

"  But  I  do,"  he  replied,  with  emphasis,  "  not  only  doubt,  but 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

deny  its  reality.  It  is  a  cheat,  an  ignis  fatuus,  the  mirage  of 
the  simple  and  the  credulous,  and  more  fatal  in  its  illusion 
than  that  of  the  desert  which  mocks  the  weary  traveller  to 
disappointment  and  to  death  by  the  sight  and  sound  of  ideal 
waters." 

Unwilling  to  discuss  this  subject  further  with  him,  and 
anxious  to  learn  from  his  own  lips  the  secret  of  his  disgrace, 
and  of  his  downfall,  I  questioned  him  in  reference  thereto. 

"  It  is  a  short  story,"  said  he,  "  and  soon  told.  Know  then 
that  in  the  name  of  friendship  I  was  induced  to  partake  of  the 
social  cup,  and  my  companions,  my  good  friends  as  I  was 
wont  to  call  them,  and  as  they  were  pleased  to  call  them- 
selves, taking  advantage  of  the  excess  of  generous  feeling 
which  the  fatal  beverage  never  fails  to  inspire  —  borrowed 
my  money  and  my  name,  until  the  one  was  gone  and  the 
other  disgraced.  In  the  hour  of  mine  adversity,  I  turned  to 
my  friends  for  aid,  and  they  turned  from  me  without  grant- 
ing it.  When  first  repulsed,  my  heart  bled  and  sunk  within 
me,  and  I  flew  to  the  bottle  for  consolation.  But  the  deeper 
I  drank  the  less  consolation  I  found.  Incensed  at  the  perfidy 
of  my  friends,  disgusted  with  the  black  ingratitude  of  the 
world,  my  moral  powers  destroyed  by  strong  drink,  and 
pressed  and  goaded  by  want,  I  resolved,  in  a  moment  of  des- 
pondency and  desperation,  to  commit  a  crime ;  and  I  forged 
upon  a  man,  who,  at  that  very  moment  owed  me  double  the 
amount  of  the  forged  note.  The  forgery  was  detected,  and 
I  was  apprehended,  convicted  and  sentenced  to  prison,  and 
here  I  am  as  you  see  me  —  a  bankrupt,  a  drunkard  and  a 
felon !" 

As  he  uttered  this  last  word,  he  turned  from  me  —  threw 
himself  upon  his  pallet  of  straw  —  drew  his  tattered  and 
humid  blanket  o'er  his  face,  and  wept  and  cursed  —  and  wept 
and  cursed  again.  One  week  from  that  day  he  died  —  died 
without  repentance,  perchance  without  forgiveness  —  died 
with  malice  and  revenge  rankling  in  his  heart,  and  with 
curses  and  imprecations  quivering  on  his  lips ! 

Thanks  to  the  brave  and  generous  spirits  who  were  the 
pioneers  in  the  Temperance  cause ;  honor,  and  praise  and 
gratitude  to  those  who  volunteered  to  redeem  their  fellow- 


118  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

man  from  the  moral  curse  of  drunkenness ;  and  who,  like  the 
High  Priest  of  the  Israelites,  went  out  into  the  camp,  and 
stood  between  the  dead  and  living,  to  stay  the  plague  which 
raged  among  the  people. 

Oh !  that  I  could  but  present  to  your  imaginations  a  true 
and  faithful  portraiture  of  the  wretchedness  and  misery  which 
is,  and  has  been  inflicted  upon  mankind  by  that  monster  and 
master- vice  —  that  devouring  Ogre  of  the  social  world, — 
Intemperance.  Nay,  that  I  could  gather,  and  group,  and 
marshal  before  you  its  palsied  and  haggard  victims,  — in  all 
their  squalidness  and  degradation  —  that  you  might  behold  — 
if  the  horrid  sight  did  not  strike  you  blear  and  blind  —  the 
extent  and  magnitude  of  that  fiery  and  consuming  curse, 
which,  for  a  season  threatened  to  overthrow  and  destroy  the 
social  and  the  moral  world !  But  even  then,  you  would  not 
be  able  to  form  a  proper  estimate  of  the  sanative  and  redeem- 
ing influences  which  have  been  dispensed  by  the  genius  of 
Temperance,  unless  I  could,  at  the  same  time  summon  the 
lovely  goddess  from  her  ethereal  abode  into  the  midst  of 
that  congregation  of  bloated  wretchedness,  that  you  might 
also  have  displayed  before  you  the  actual  workings  of  her 
miraculous  power. 

Behold  that  cadaverous  and  loathsome  group  of  inebriates ! 
Mark,  how  sickening,  how  ghastly  and  disgusting  their  whole 
appearance  and  their  every  aspect!  Their  garments  torn 
and  tattered  —  literally  dripping  filth  and  blood  —  their  bodies 
bruised  and  ulcerated ;  their  limbs  trembling  and  palsied ; 
their  countenances  phrensied  and  distorted ;  every  vestige 
and  lineament  of  mind  and  soul  defaced  and  blotted  out, — 
the  very  atmosphere  which  surrounds  them,  polluted  and 
poisoned  by  their  foul  and  foetid  exhalations.  See  !  see  !  how 
the  demon  Intemperance,  as  he  sways  his  triumphant  sceptre 
o'er  his  prostrate  —  his  helpless  and  hopeless  victims,  gloats 
over  their  deep  and  unutterable  despair,  and  revels,  and  exults 
in  the  fancied  supremacy  and  permanency  of  his  power. 
Alleluiah!  his  reign  and  his  triumphs  draw  speedily  to  an 
end.  Lo !  the  genius  of  Temperance  is  descending  to  the 
rescue ;  and  the  foul  fiend  starts  up  trembling  and  shrieking 
at  the  touch  of  hervwand.  The  spell  that  bound  his  subjects 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  119 

in  moral  darkness  and  death  is  broken,  and  as  they  feel  the 
presence  of  the  celestial  goddess,  they  breathe  freer  and 
deeper.  She  bids  them  arise,  and  they  spring  to  their  feet, 
She  breathes  into  them  the  breath  of  moral  life,  and  they 
stand  erect  in  her  presence  in  all  the  dignity  of  primeval  manr 
hood.  She  stretches  forth  her  hand,  and  they  are  healed — ; 
redeemed,  regenerated  and  disenthralled.  Once  more  their 
eyes  are  turned  heaven-ward,  and  their  step  is  as  firm  and 
elastic  as  of  yore.  Once  more  they  walk  abroad  in  the  sun- 
light of  peace  and  of  purity ;  with  the  stamp  of  freedom  01* 
their  brows  —  its  badge  upon  their  breasts. 


FRANKLIN. 

BY    J.    BAYARD    TAYLOR, 

The   thunders   of  a  mighty  age 

May  drown  the   voices  of  the   Past, 

But  thou,   the  Printer  and  the    Sage, 
Shalt  speak  thy  wisdom  to  the   last. 

The  power  to   stay  the   fleeting  Thought, 

tJnto  thy   hand  was  early  given, 
Till   with  the   mind's  quick  lightning  fraught, 

It  learned  to   fetter  that  of  Heaven. 

The  page,    where    by  the   Printer's   art, 
Thy  voice   has   been  eternal   made, 

Still  bears   its     lessons   wide  apart, 
The   world  to   gladden   and  to   aid. 

And  now   the  lightning's   wing  of  fire, 

Which  first  was  tamed  beneath  thy  hand, 

Takes  on  its   path  of  slender  wire 

The   Printer's   word  from   land  to  land, 

They  both   shall  work,    from  age  to  age, 
For  Truth   and   Right,    Man's  will   sublime - 

The   flash  of  Thought  on  many  a  page, 
The  lightning-throb,  outspeeding  Time. 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

THE  ORPHAN  MAID. 

BY    THE    LATE    SAMUEL   WOOD  WORTH, 


How  hard  the   maiden  orphan's  fate, 

Whose   early  joys   and  hopes  are  fled, 
Who   vainly   asks   the   rich  and  great 

For  leave   to  earn  her   daily  bread! 
Exposed  to  frowns,  rebukes   and  sneers, 

In  humble  menial  garb    arrayed, 
While  heartless   fools   deride  her   tears, 

And  spurn  the  hapless   orphan  maid. 

There   was  a  time  —  alas  !    'tis  fled — 

When  fortune,    friends    and  kindred   smiled, 
When  sunny  rays   of  joy  were  shed 

Around   the    gay   and   happy   child; 
When,  shielded  by  parental   care, 

No  pang  of  sorrow  dared  invade, 
Save   when  she   saw  the  meek  despair 

Of  some  poor  hapless,  orphan  maid. 

But  ah!    her  parents  died,    and  left 

Their   darling   unprotected  child, 
Of  fortune,  friends   and  joy  bereft, 

And  then  the  maiden  never   smiled. 
She   only   asked  to    toil  for   bread, 

She   sought  no  unrequited   aid  — 
But  asked  in  vain!   till  hope  was   fled, 

And  death  relieved  the  orphan    maid! 


EPIGRAM,  — FAME. 

'Tis    not    the    good,    the    wise,    the    brave, 
That    surest    shine,    or    highest    rise ; 

The    feather    sports    upon    the    wave — 
The    pearl    in    ocean's    cavern    lies. 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  121 


A  FEW  THOUGHTS  FOR  YOUNG  MEN. 


BY   REV.   HARRY   CROSWELL,   D.    D. 


THE  way  to  honorable  distinction  in  the  world,  is  a  road 
often  sought.  Few  ^young  men,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  have 
come  to  years  of  maturity  without  experiencing  some  longings 
after  this  distinction.  Such  aspirations  are  laudable,  and  we 
would  gladly  encourage  them ;  for  we  verily  believe,  that  all 
true  earthly  greatness  may  be  traced  to  the  working  of  one 
of  the  most  natural,  as  well  as  one  of  the  strongest,  impulses 
of  the  human  breast :  we  mean  Ambition.  Let  this  decla- 
ration excite  no  surprise.  We  are  probably  too  apt,  because 
the  passion  has  led  to  wicked  and  unjustifiable  aspirations,  to 
attach  a  bad  sense  to  the  term  Ambition.  But  the  reader 
may  be  sure,  that  we  do  not  employ  it  in  any  such  sense. 
By  Ambition,  we  mean,  the  desire  of  any  thing  great  or  ex- 
cellent. We  speak  of  it  here,  as  a  desire  of  something  higher 
than  is  at  present  possessed.  And  we  intend  to  ascribe  to 
this  natural  a/nd  noble  stimulus,  not  only  the  rise  and  progress 
of  the  vast  improvements  of  the  age  —  but  we  intend  to  take 
the  broad  ground,  that  ambition  to  excel,  has  laid  the  foun- 
dation of  all  great  enterprises,  and  may  be  considered  as  the 
source,  in  a  worldly  point  of  view,  of  all  true  greatness. 

In  this  position,  we  know  not  how  far  we  may  be  sus- 
tained. There  may  be  many,  who  will  look  to  other  and 
different  sources  for  the  true  spring  of  greatness.  Some,  for 
example,  will  suppose,  that  man  becomes  great  by  the  mere 
force  of  natural  genius  ;  others,  that  education  forms  the  sole 
ground  of  his  greatness ;  and  others,  probably,  that  birth, 
ancestry,  and  inherited  wealth,  are  the  only  sources  of  all  that 
is  good  and  excellent.  These  several  claims  may  be  briefly 
examined :  and  if  we  are  not  much  mistaken,  the  result  will 

15 


122  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

show,  that  neither  of  these,  independently  of  an  irrepressible 
ambition  to  excel,  can  lead  to  true  human  greatness. 

1.  As  to  natural  genius  :  —  We  can  speak  of  it,  only  in 
terms  of  the  highest  respect  and  deference.  It  is  a  stock, 
on  which  may  be  engrafted  every  thing  that  is  excellent; 
and  from  which  may  spring  the  most  precious  and  luxuriant 
fruits.  It  is  among  the  rich  and  noble  gifts  of  God,  for  which 
we  cannot  be  too  grateful.  But,  like  the  wild  plant,  springing 
up  from  the  native  soil,  it  requires  much  careful  culture,  and 
laborious  training,  to  bring  it  to  perfection.  Or,  like  the  pre- 
cious minerals  in  our  mountains,  which,  with  all  their  intrinsic 
excellence,  are  of  little  value  to  mankind,  until  drawn  from 
their  native  beds,  and  subjected  to  the  operations  of  the  fur- 
nace or  the  laboratory.  The  man  of  genius,  may  do  much  to 
instruct,  and  edify,  and  improve  mankind ;  and  he  may  ac- 
quire a  large  share  of  fame  and  distinction  ;  but  not  merely 
because  he  is  a  man  of  genius.  Without  persevering  effort 
and  labor,  his  genius  may  run  to  waste  ;  and  the  world  will 
never  be  the  better  for  the  light  -which  he  emits ;  and  his 
fame  will  be  little  else  than  the  transient  glare  of  the  meteor. 
And  will  this  effort  and  labor  be  applied  without  a  powerful 
stimulant?  Never.  And  in  what  passion  of  the  human 
breast  will  you  find  this  stimulant?  Undoubtedly  in  Am- 
bition, and  in  nothing  else  —  an  unconquerable  and  irrepress- 
ible ambition  to  excel.  Why  are  we  so  often  called  to  mourn 
over  the  pitiable  end  of  men  of  rare  genius  and  fine  talents  7 
When  they  might  have  risen  to  the  highest  eminence,  and 
stood  among  the  brightest  ornaments  of  their  race,  why  have 
they  sunk  into  insignificance  and  worthlessness  ?  Why,  in 
so  many  instances,  has  the  same  sun  that  rose  in  brilliancy 
and  splendor,  set  at  last  in  thick  darkness  and  obscurity? 
In  all  such  cases,  the  force  of  genius  is  lost,  because  it  is 
not  stimulated  to  effort  and  well-directed  energy.  Thou- 
sands, relying  on  their  mere  natural  endowments,  and  dream- 
ing that  fame  and  distinction  must  come  unsought,  have 
despised  the  means  of  culture  and  improvement  —  have  fallen 
into  habits  of  negligence  and  indifference  —  have  held  public 
opinion  in  reckless  disregard  —  and  have  fallen  from  one 
stage  of  self-degradation  to  another,  until  they  have  become 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  123 

the  companions  of  fools,  the  bloated  oracles  of  the  bar-room 
and  the  tippling-house,  and  the  by-word  and  scoff  of  the 
vulgar.  Painful,  indeed,  is  the  contemplation  of  such  cases. 
But  they  stand  out  prominent  in  every  community,  and  they 
are  full  of  instruction  to  the  young.  They  teach  them  to 
beware  of  the  temptation  by  which  so  many  have  been  en- 
snared ;  and  to  remember,  that  the  mere  force  of  natural 
genius  is  not,  of  itself,  sufficient  to  secure  true  and  perma- 
nent greatness. 

2.  But  while  this  is  admitted,  there  are  many  others,  who 
suppose  that  education  forms  the  sole  ground  of  men's  great- 
ness. This  point  claims  the  more  consideration,  because  it 
is,  probably,  somewhat  misapprehended.  Very  erroneous 
opinions  may  be  entertained  with  regard  to  education ;  and 
hence  we  should  endeavor  to  understand  what  is  its  true 
meaning,  in  what  it  consists,  and  how  it  is  acquired.  Edu- 
cation is  a  term  applied,  somewhat  indiscriminately,  to  any 
and  every  mode  of  instruction  employed  for  training  and 
disciplining  the  mind.  It  may  begin  in  the  nursery,  or  at 
the  domestic  fireside,  and  end  in  the  district  school.  Or, 
advancing  some  steps  higher,  it  may  be  imbibed  in  one  of 
those  wonder-working  institutions,  where  ideas  are  formed 
and  fashioned  by  a  sort  of  labor-saving  machinery  ;  and  where 
a  single  course  of  lessons  on  a  given  subject,  may  be  made 
to  supply  the  place  of  many  years  of  hard  study  and  close 
application.  But  many  suppose,  that  education,  properly  so 
called,  must  be  confined  exclusively  to  a  certain  systematic 
course  of  training  in  the  higher  seminaries  of  learning ;  and 
even  in  this  training,  they  would  recognize  shades  of  differ- 
ence and  degrees  of  excellence.  The  style  of  education  most 
approved,  must  be  that  which  consumes  the  most  time  and 
costs  the  most  money.  A  single  example,  may  serve  to  illus- 
trate this  mode  of  training.  A  lad,  perhaps  green  in  years, 
but  sufficiently  mature  in  his  perverse  passions  and  habits 
to  rise  above  parental  authority  and  discipline,  must  be  sent 
to  a  boarding-school  to  commence  his  education.  This  board- 
ing-school must  be  designated  by  some  well-sounding  title, 
to  distinguish  it  from  the  more  common  academies,  where 
education  is  made  a  business  and  not  an  amusement.  And 


124  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

the  institution  itself,  must  comport  with  the  title.  It  must  be 
no  mean  affair  —  lest  the  high-minded  youth,  drawn  away 
from  the  extravagance  and  luxuries  of  his  home,  should  be 
disgusted  and  dissatisfied  with  the  plainness  of  his  table,  and 
the  narrow  limits  of  his  dormitory.  Every  thing  must  be 
presented  to  the  eye  in  magnificent  style,  and  nothing  must 
be  wanting  to  secure  contentment.  The  scene  must  be  ren- 
dered attractive,  by  whatever  can  pamper  the  appetite  or 
gratify  his  pride.  In  this  establishment  he  must  remain,  until 
pronounced  fit  to  enter  the  university.  And  whether  he  will 
succeed  in  this,  must  depend,  in  a  great  measure,  on  the  lenity 
or  strictness  of  his  examinations.  But  we  will  suppose  that 
he  is  admitted.  Here,  then,  the  young  master  enters  upon 
new  scenes.  Fitted,  by  his  incipient  training,  to  find  fault 
with  every  thing,  he  is  little  inclined  to  submit  to  authority, 
or  to  apply  himself  to  study.  He  imagines  that  there  is 
nothing  in  the  life  of  a  college  student  but  privation  and 
suffering ;  and  hence  it  will  be  strange  indeed,  if  he  dees  not 
seek  for  some  solace  for  fancied  troubles,  in  forbidden  indul- 
gence and  dissipation.  If  he  escapes  expulsion,  he  may  deem 
himself  fortunate.  He  passes  on  through  the  discipline  of 
warnings,  admonitions,  and  rustications,  and  finally  comes 
out  with  the  honors  of  his  college.  And  this  is  called  edu- 
cation !  And  it  is  education,  in  a  certain  sense ;  but  not  in 
the  high  and  exalted  sense  in  which  the  term  ought  to  be 
used.  We  will  not  say,  with  the  old  English  satirist  (Swift) 
that  "  education  is  worse  in  proportion  to  the  grandeur  of 
the  parents  ;"  nor  will  we  assert,  with  him,  that  "  if  the 
whole  world  were  under  one  monarch,  the  heir  of  that  mon- 
arch would  be  the  worst  educated  mortal  in  the  creation. " 
This  might  be  saying  too  much.  But  it  may  be  reasonably 
doubted,  whether  the  most  wealthy,  and  those  who  possess 
the  most  abundant  means  for  educating  their  children,  are 
always  the  most  likely  to  train  them  up  for  usefulness  to 
others  or  credit  to  themselves.  The  fault,  in  these  cases,  is 
not  to  be  imputed  to  the  system.  The  high-school  and  the 
college,  send  out  many  a  brilliant  scholar.  In  these  institu- 
tions, the  means  of  instruction  are  amply  provided ;  and  the 
youth  might,  if  he  would,  attain  to  respectability  and  dis- 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  125 

tinction.  But,  spoiled  by  early  indulgence,  and  never  taught 
to  rely  on  his  own  resources,  there  is  nothing  to  stimulate 
his  ambition,  nothing  to  excite  him  to  exertion,  nothing  to 
call  forth  whatever  of  energy  or  strength  he  may  possess. 
His  study  is  a  task,  and  an  irksome  task.  To  escape  a 
recitation,  is  his  proudest  achievement.  He  is  dragged  or 
forced  along  through  the  different  stages  of  his  progress,  an 
unwilling  or  reluctant  victim,  as  he  conceives,  to  rules,  as 
unreasonable  in  themselves,  as  they  are  unwelcome  to  him. 
Now,  that  men  thus  educated,  should  prove  wholly  unfit  for 
usefulness,  is  not  surprising ;  and  it  would  be  strange  indeed, 
if  this  were  the  only  way  of  training  the  youthful  mind,  that 
man's  greatness  or  respectability  should  depend  in  any  degree 
on  his  education.  But  if,  by  education,  we  are  to  under- 
stand, any  and  every  mode  by  which  the  mind  is  strength- 
ened, and  disciplined,  and  imbued  with  knowledge,  then  it 
must  be  admitted,  that  education  is  one  of  the  chief  instru- 
ments by  which  man  attains  to  distinction.  Let  the  youth, 
impelled  by  an  ardent  and  unquenchable  desire  to  excel, 
enter  upon  the  business  of  education,  and  he  will  succeed. 
No  matter  what  system  he  adopts  ;  nor  will  his  circumstances 
make  any  difference  in  the  result.  He  may  be  rich,  or  he 
may  be  poor ;  —  he  may  enjoy  all  the  advantages  of  the  higher 
institutions  of  learning,  or  he  may  be  compelled  to  gather  up 
the  treasures  of  knowledge  while  necessarily  employed  in  the 
active  and  laborious  duties  of  a  trade  or  profession.  The 
end  will  be  the  same.  If  imbued  with  an  ambition  and 
determination  to  attain  his  object,  success  must  eventually 
crown  his  efforts.  He  will  learn  the  best  lessons,  and  in  the 
best  way.  And,  more  than  this,  he  will  know,  better  than 
other  men,  how  to  apply  his  knowledge  to  the  most  useful 
purposes,  and  the  most  noble  ends.  Education,  in  this  sense, 
does  indeed  contribute  its  full  share  to  man's  greatness. 

3.  But,  doubtless,  there  may  be  some,  who  suppose  that 
neither  natural  genius,  nor  educatien,  are  essential  to  this 
end ;  but  that  birth,  ancestry,  and  inherited  wealth,  are  the 
only  sources  of  all  that  is  great  or  excellent.  It  cannot  be 
expected,  that  many  words  will  be  spent  in  the  examination 
of  this  claim.  It  will  find  little  favor  among  the  hardy  sons 


126  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

of  this  young  republic*  In  this  age  and  country,  greatness 
comes  not  by  hereditary  right.  Titles,  and  honors  are  to  be 
fairly  won,  before  they  can  be  rightfully  worn.  And  we  ac- 
knowledge none  of  that  ignoble  nobility  (if  the  paradoxical 
expression  may  be  allowed)  which  has  no '  better  claim  to 
distinction,  than  the  musty  title-deed  of  an  ancient  or  wealthy 
family.  Under  a  system  of  government  where  "  Worth  makes 
the  man,  and  want  of  it  the  fellow"  —  where  the  road  to 
preferment  and  powder  is  alike  open  to  all  —  and  where  the 
high  places  of  honor  and  trust  are  awarded  to  the  most  worthy 
competitors,  without  respect  to  the  adventitious  circumstances 
of  birth  or  inheritance  —  it  would  be  worse  than  absurd  to 
set  up  arbitrary  distinctions  of  rank,  or  to  put  on  airs  of 
superiority,  not  awarded  by  public  sentiment.  While  all  men 
are  ready  to  pay  due  deference  to  talents,  and  virtue,  and 
integrity,  and  every  other  noble  quality,  by  whomsoever  pos- 
sessed, they  will  not  bow  down  to  a  spurious  aristocracy, 
founded  and  built  up  on  the  mere  accident  of  inherited  pos- 
sessions. 

We  come  to  the  conclusion,  then,  that  from  neither  of 
these  sources,  nor  from  all  of  them  combined,  in  the  absence 
of  the  great  moving  principle  which  we  are  advocating,  can 
man  derive  substantial  or  permanent  greatness.  He  may 
possess  natural  genius ;  he  may  pass  through  all  the  forms 
of  an  education  ;  and  he  may  inherit  a  great  name  and 
abundant  wealth ;  and  yet  he  may  suffer  them  all  to  remain 
as  the  talent  misimproved,  —  and  so  become  an  unprofitable 
drone  —  a  worthless  cumberer  of  the  ground.  But  let  him 
once  feel  the  stirrings  of  a  laudable  ambition  ;  let  the  noble 
desire  to  attain  to  an  honorable  distinction,  fire  his  breast ; 
let  him  resolve,  as  far  as  possible,  to  excel,  in  whatsoever 
he  may  undertake  ;  let  him,  with  untiring  industry  and  per- 
severance, apply  his  genius,  his  learning,  or  his  wealth,  to 
the  great  object  most  dear  to  his  heart ;  and  he  will  be  sure 
to  rise  above  every  obstacle,  and  will  finally  establish  a  name 
and  reputation,  which  constitute,  in  a  worldly  point  of  view, 
all  true  greatness.  This  is  our  position.  And  the  whole 
world  is  full  of  examples,  by  which  it  may  be  proved  and 
illustrated.  But  we  need  not  go  abroad  to  seek  for  such 


BOOK.  127 

examples.  They  are  before  us,  and  around  us  ;  and  we  look 
with  pride  and  gratification  on  the  fruits  of  this  laudable 
ambition,  which  everywhere  present  themselves  to  our  ob- 
servation. We  see  the  stamp  of  this  moving  principle,  in  all 
the  vast  improvements  which  have  so  wholly  changed  the 
appearance  and  character  of  our  country.  These  improve- 
ments appear  in  every  branch  of  industry  and  enterprise. 
For  example,  in  architecture,  and  the  various  mechanic  arts. 
And  to  whom,  and  to  what,  are  we  indebted,  for  the  high 
state  of  perfection  to  which  these  various  works  have  been 
brought?  By  whom  have  your  noblest  public  edifices  been, 
planned  and  executed  ?  And  who  has  displayed  so  much 
taste  and  elegance  in  the  structure  of  the  private  dwellings 
which,  like  so  many  gems,  adorn  your  cities,  towns,  and 
villages  1  By  whose  ingenuity  and  skill,  has  the  vast  and 
complicated  machinery  been  set  in  motion,  by  which  your 
manufactures  have  been  carried  to  a  degree  of  finish  and 
beauty  of  workmanship,  not  exceeded  in  any  part  of  the 
world  1  And  what  has  given  to  your  press,  such  high  claims 
to  pre-eminence  ?  We  turn  with  exultation  to  our  young 
men,  who  have  been  brought  up  among  us,  and  trained  to 
mechanical  trades  in  our  work-shops:  —  young  men,  often 
laboring  under  every  disadvantage  ;  having  no  resources  — 
nothing  to  rely  upon  for  future  distinction  and  prosperity, 
but  their  own  exertions.  These  are  the  men,  —  prompted, 
stimulated,  and  urged  forward,  with  the  hope  of  excelling 
in  whatsoever  they  undertake,  —  that  rise  to  eminence  and 
distinction.  Again,  we  may  ask  —  Who  are  your  artists? 
Who  are  your  engravers,  your  sculptors,  and  your  painters? 
What  has  given  them  a  name,  as  well  deserved  as  it  is 
cheerfully  awarded?  The  same  irrepressible  desire  to  excel 
—  the  same  noble  ambition  to  earn  an  imperishable  fame. 
Among  them  all,  you  will  find  few  who  have  enjoyed  the 
smiles  of  fortune,  or  the  advantages  of  an  expensive  educa- 
tion. But  they  have  voluntarily  subjected  their  minds  to  the 
severest  discipline.  They  have  thought,  studied,  strove  to 
acquire  knowledge.  They  have  surmounted  obstacles ;  they 
have  mastered  difficulties ;  they  have  enjoyed,  by  anticipa- 
tion, rich  rewards  for  their  perseverance  and  exertion ;  and 


128  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

these  rewards  have  been  abundantly  bestowed.  So  with 
the  professional  man  —  the  agriculturist  —  and  the  merchant. 
Who  prospers  best?  Who  is  the  most  sure  to  gain  a  com- 
petency 1  Who  rises  to  the  highest  eminence  1  Surely  not 
the  drone  or  the  idler ;  or  the  poor  visionary  dreamer,  who 
amuses  himself  with  building  castles  in  the  air,  and  imagines 
that  fortune,  and  honor,  and  distinction,  will  come  unsought, 
or  fall  into  his  lap  by  chance,  or  accident,  or  inheritance. 
No :  such  are  not  the  men  to  prosper :  but  those,  on  the 
contrary,  who,  by  compulsion  or  by  choice,  tax  their  facul- 
ties to  the  utmost ;  who  labor  in  their  proper  vocation  with 
untiring  diligence  ;  and  wrho  look  for  a  fair  and  equitable 
return  for  all  their  exertions,  in  the  success  of  their  enter- 
prises. These  are  the  men  to  thrive  in  the  world.  And 
they  are  the  men  to  whom  you  most  cheerfully,  nay,  almost 
instinctively,  award  the  highest  honors.  When  selecting 
candidates  for  the  places  of  high  trust  and  responsibility  — 
when  seeking  a  safe  depository  for  the  estates  of  your  widows 
and  minors  —  when  you  would  find  a  counsellor  to  advise  and 
direct  you,  or  an  agent  to  transact  your  business  —  to  whom 
do  you  look  1  Not  to  the  man  who  merely  happens  to  pos- 
sess a  fortune  for  which  he  has  never  labored,  or  who  is 
only  distinguished  by  a  name  which  he  has  shamefully  dis- 
honored by  his  own  sloth  and  idleness ;  or  who  cautiously 
•wraps  his  talent  in  a  napkin,  and  buries  it  in  the  earth. 
No :  but  you  look  to  those  who  have  felt  the  necessity  of 
thinking  and  acting  for  themselves  ;  who  have  been  solicitous 
to  earn  and  maintain  a  good  reputation ;  who  have  learned 
the  value  of  their  possessions,  by  the  efforts  which  it  has 
cost  for  their  attainment;  and  who  have  been  content  to 
pursue  a  course  of  patient  application,  industry,  and  perse- 
verance, without  turning  aside  to  grasp  at  the  idle  phantoms 
and  wild  speculations  by  which  thousands  have  been  tempted 
and  beguiled  to  their  ruin.  Such  examples,  were  there  no 
other,  are  of  themselves  sufficient  to  show  the  correctness, 
as  well  as  the  importance,  of  the  principle  which  we  are 
advocating.  And  these  examples,  as  we  have  already  said, 
present  themselves  on  every  side,  and  fall  under  our  daily 
observation.  But  we  might  refer  you  to  a  different  class  of 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  129 

examples,  to  support  our  position.  We  might  adduce  the 
case  of  men  greatly  distinguished,  by  the  public  stations  to 
which  they  have  been  called  :  your  statesmen  —  your  naval 
and  military  heroes  —  and  a  long  list  of  worthies  whose  names 
adorn  the  history  of  your  country.  In  doing  this,  we  would 
not  go  into  the  political  ranks,  for  the  sake  of  invidiously 
singling  out  here  and  there  one,  as  more  excellent  and  dis- 
tinguished than  another.  Our  remarks  may  embrace  a  great 
number,  and  we  therefore  speak  in  general  terms.  But 
among  those  who  have  attained  to  the  highest  honor,  and 
have  reached  the  most  exalted  office  in  the  gift  of  the 
nation,  we  might  point  you  to  seme,  who  have  reached-  this 
noble  elevation  unaided  by  any  of  the  accidental  circum- 
stances on  which  too  many  rely  for  distinction.  They  have 
taken  their  rise  in  humble  life.  But  they  have  started  with 
high  aspirations.  Not  indeed  that  they  could  have  dreamed, 
in  their  early  life,  of  the  high  distinction  to  which  they  were 
destined.  Such  towering  aspirations  —  such  extravagant  am- 
bition —  could  never  have  fired  their  bosoms  in  their  younger 
days.  But  their  mark  was  lofty.  And  they  willingly  re- 
sorted to  close  application  and  laborious  study.  They  thirst- 
ed and  panted  for  knowledge ;  and  when  the  advantages  of 
the  high-school  and  the  college  were  denied  them,  they 
endeavored  to  supply  the  deficiency  by  personal  industry 
and  steady  perseverance.  They  became,  in  the  outset, 
inured  to  difficulties,  and  familiar  with  opposition.  But  they 
rose  above  every  obstacle.  They  triumphed  over  every  in- 
terposing force.  In  the  end,  they  have  had  the  privilege  of 
standing  before  the  world  as  self-made  men.  To  their  own 
exertions,  under  God,  have  they  been  indebted,  for  the  wreath 
of  honor,  which  a  grateful  nation  has  bound  upon  their  brow. 
It  has  been  the  effect  of  self-culture  and  self-dependence, 
stimulated  and  carried  forward  by  that  most  powerful  of  all 
human  impulses,  ambition  to  excel.  In  whatever  lay  before 
them,  their  desire  was  to  do  better  than  others.  They  would 
yield  to  no  competitor ;  they  would  spare  no  pains  or  labor ; 
they  would  sink  under  no  discouragement.  As  they  gained 
one  eminence,  another  presented  itself;  and  the  higher  they 
advanced,  the  more  steep  and  difficult  seemed  the  ascent. 

16 


130  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

And,  finally,  there  was  a  last  summit  to  be  gained ;  and  men 
who  had  never  been  accustomed  to  look"  upon  any  object  as 
unattainable,  were  not  to  be  disheartened  at  such  a,  juncture. 
Of  the  result  of  these  particular  aspirations,  it  is  unnecessary 
to  speak  ;  nor  do  men  that  have  attained  to  such  an  elevation, 
need  our  eulogy.  These  are  adduced,  with  other  examples, 
merely  to  show  what  may  be  done,  by  steady  industry  and 
persevering  effort,  prompted  and  urged  forward  by  an  ever- 
present  and  uncontrollable  desire  to  attain  to  something 
great  or  excellent;  how  obstacles,  and  difficulties,  and  dis- 
advantages, which  seem  like  mountains  to  the  timid  and  sloth- 
ful, may  be  triumphantly  surmounted  and  overcome,  by  any 
man  who  has  fixed  his  eye  upon  a  shining  mark,  and  has 
resolved  that  no  fabor  of  his  own  shall  be  wanting  to  secure 
the  prize  for  which  he  is  contending. 

By  all,  and  especially  the  young,  these  considerations  may 
be  deemed  w<orthy  of  attention.  They  are  presented,  not  for 
the  purpose  of  provoking  unreasonable  or  unjustifiable  as- 
pirations ;  not  to  set  temptations  before  them,  to  stretch  them- 
selves beyond  their  due  measure ;  nor  to  draw  them  away 
from  pursuits  in  which  they  are  best  qualified  to  excel,  to 
waste  their  strength  in  doubtful,  untried  and  visionary  enter- 
prizes.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  an  undue  or  misguided  am- 
bition —  a  desire  to  attain  objects,  laudable  in  themselves, 
but  necessarily  placed  beyond  the  reach  of  the  aspirant.  It 
was  childish,  perhaps  foolish,  in  the  little  boy,  who  begged 
his  father  to  furnish  him  a  ladder,  by  which  he  could  climb 
to  the  moon  :  but  though  the  desire  was  absurd  and  unrea- 
sonable, and  the  object  unattainable,  yet  it  betrayed  in  the 
bosom  of  that  child,  those  incipient  workings  of  a  principle, 
which,  when  well  matured  and  properly  directed,  might  lead 
to  grand  results.  Again,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  an  am- 
bition, the  offspring  of  vanity  and.  self-conceit,  which  is, 
perhaps,  one  of  the  greatest  faults  of  the  age.  It  looks 
for  great  results,  from  little  exertion.  It  aspires  to  a  lofty 
eminence,  without  counting  the  tedious  steps,  and  pondering 
the  wearisome  way,  by  which  that  elevation  is  to  be  gained. 
And  it  is  this  kind  of  ambition,  that  so  often  leads  men  to 
abandon  one  pursuit  after  another,  with  *  the  vain  hope  of 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  131 

finding,  at  last,  a  more  direct  or  less  laborious  path,  to  the 
great  object  of  their  aspirations.  How  different  is  all  this 
from  that  steady,  persevering  effort,  by  which  any  man  may 
arrive  at  the  highest  degree  of  excellence  in  his  own  proper 
occupation.  In  the  breast  of  such  an  one,  ambition  is  a 
noble  principle,  and  will  secure  for  him  as  proud  an  eleva- 
tion, as  was  ever  enjoyed  by  the  most  successful  aspirant 
after  I  he  honors  and  lofty  places  of  the  >  earth.  This  is  an 
ambition,  where  rank,  condition,  circumstances,  make  no 
difference.  The  farmer,  the  mechanic,  the  tradesman,  the 
merchant,  and  the  professional  man,  all  stand  on  precisely 
the  same  broad  ground.  The  prize  for  excelling,  is  equally 
held  out  to  all ;  the  same  noble  desire  to  reach  the  prize, 
should  animate  all ;  and  the  world  will  ever  stand  ready 
to  award  the  victory  to  the  successful  competitor,  of  whatso- 
ever class,  or  whatsoever  shall  be  the  nature  of  his  enter- 
prize.  No  man  should  be  tempted,  by  the  superior  ad- 
vantages which  he  may  happen  to  possess,  to  relax  his 
exertions;  nor  should  any  one  sink  down  in  despair,  under 
the  discouragements  which  a  wise  providence  may  throw  in 
his  way. 

Is  he  for  example,  a  man  of  natural  genius?  Let  him 
reflect  on  the  fearful  responsibility  under  which  the  God  of 
nature  and  providence  has  placed  him  by  this  rich  endow- 
ment ;  and  let  him  take  care  that  it  be  not  buried  in  the 
earth,  nor  abused  by  licentiousness.  By  a  due  cultivation 
of  such  a  talent,  he  may  acquire  knowledge,  fame,  com- 
petency—  every  thing  within  his  reasonable  desires.  If  he 
mistakes  not  the  bent  of  his  genius,  he  may  set  his  stand- 
ard as  high  as  he  will,  and  he  will  be  sure  to  attain  to  it» 
If  he  starts  upon  his  race  with  the  laudable  ambition  to 
excel,  he  will  soon  pass  and  distance  many  an  idle  laggard 
on  the  way,  and  come  to  the  end  of  his  course  with  high 
and  enduring  honor.  But  let  him  beware  how  he  falls  into 
a  common  and  fatal  error.  He  must  not  presume  upon  the 
mere  strength  of  his  natural  genius.  It  is,  in  itself,  and 
without  cultivation,  either  useless  or  mischievous.  He  can 
only  look  upon  it  as  so  much  ready  furnished  capital,  to  be 
improved,  and  used,  and  employed,  with  all  diligence.  He 


132  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

must  neither  lock  it  up,  like  a  wretched  miser,  nor  squander 
it  away,  like  a  reckless  prodigal.  Who  has  not  seen  the 
sad  effects  of  this  improvidence  1  Who  has  not  gazed  in 
pity  on  some  miserable  being,  known  to  fame  only  as  a 
poor  genius?  That  is,  one  originally  endowed  with  the 
rich  gifts  of  nature ;  but  who  had  suffered  them  to  run  to 
waste,  or  had  presumed  so  much  upon  their  unassisted  effi- 
cacy, as  to  leave  them  unimproved?  To  be  left  at  last, 
penniless'  in  purse,  and  a  bankrupt  in  reputation,  is  the 
hard  but  sure  penalty  of  such  improvidence  and  prodigality. 
Under  the  stirrings  of  a  laudable  ambition,  he  has  every 
thing  to  gain ;  but  without  these  promptings,  he  becomes 
little  better  than  an  ingenious  piece  of  mechanism,  corrod- 
ed, cankered^  eaten  up  with  rust,  and  thrown  aside  to  be 
neglected  and  forgotten. 

But  we  turn  to  another  case  — to  one,  who,  with  or 
without  natural  genius,  has  had  the  advantages  of  a  finished 
education. .  Admit  that  he  has,  from  his  very  boyhood,  been 
attentive,  orderly,  and  industrious;  that  he  has  maintained 
a  high  standing  among  his  fellow-students ;  and  that  he  has 
gained,  not  only  a  college-degree,  but  the  distinguished 
honors  of  his  class.  All  this  is  well.  It  is  unquestiona- 
bly a  good  foundation  for  future  greatness.  But  let  him 
remember  that  it  is  but  a  foundation  ;  and  if  he  rests  sat- 
isfied with  this,  he  will  soon  find  himself  as  unfaithful  to 
his  own  interests,  and  as  useless  to  mankind,  as  if  he  had 
never  enjoyed  the  benefits  of  mental  cultivation.  Know- 
ledge, however  acquired,  and  however  perfect,  unless  applied 
diligently  and  earnestly  to  some  practical  purpose,  is  ut- 
terly valueless.  Education,  like  natural  genius,  may  be 
locked  up  and  lost  to  the  world.  The  educated  man,  who 
employs  his  learning  only  as  a  court-dress  or  a  military 
uniform,  to  be  exhibited  and  paraded  on  gala-days  or  special 
occasions,  will  be  as  little  known  to  fame,  as  the  veriest 
blockhead  in  community:  and  if  he  is  obliged  to  throw 
himself  back  upon  his  college-honors,  for  all  the  distinction 
which  he  can  acquire,  he  will  find  them  empty  and  una- 
vailing. His  whole  history  is  written  in  the  college-cata- 
logue, with  perhaps  this  great  man,  or  that  good  man,  for 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  133 

bis  class-mate;  and  were  it  not  for  this  distinction,  his  name 
would  never  reach  beyond  his  own  family  circle,  nor  farther 
into  futurity,  than,  the  age  in  which  he  lives.  What  young 
man  would  not  be  ashamed  of  such  a  destiny  1  Who  would 
be  content  with  a  respectability  framed  of  such  materials  7 
Who  would  not  strive  for  something  more  honorable?  To 
accomplish  all  his  better  desires,  is  perfectly  easy,  if  the 
purpose  be  fixed,  and  the  aim  be  not  misdirected.  Let  the 
advantages  of  mental  discipline  be  actively  employed,  in 
exploring,  deeper  and  deeper,  the  sources  of  knowledge ; 
in  unfolding,  more  and  more,  the  phenomena  of  nature ; 
and  in  carrying  the  arts  and  sciences  to  the  highest  pitch 
of  perfection ;  and  then  will  education  prove  a  most  in- 
valuable acquisition.  It  will  not  only  excite,  but  gratify, 
the  most  lofty  aspirations,  and  secure,  at  last,  an  imper- 
ishable fame.  It  will  reflect  back  honor  upon  the  institu- 
tion where  its  foundation  was  laid,  and  shed  many  brilliant 
rays  upon  records,  which  would  otherwise  be  lost  in  ob- 
livion. 

But  suppose,  again,  that  with  or  without  either  of  these 
advantages,  the  young  man  has  inherited  an  honorable  name 
Or  abundant  wealth?  Does  he  imagine  that  these  alone  are 
a  passport  to  the  homage  of  his  fellow-men,  and  to  the 
high  places  of  trust  and  honor?  If  he  has  no  other  claim  to 
distinction,  he  will  soon  find  himself  sadly  mistaken.  He 
will  be  passed  by,  with  as  little  respect  as  the  graven  mon- 
ument, which  merely  serves  to  show  what  expense  of  treas- 
ure and  labor  may  be  lavished  on  a  senseless  block.  His 
fancied  greatness,  will  receive  no  prop  or  support  from 
the  hands  of  the  wise  or  intelligent  among  his  peers ;  and 
in  due  time  he  will  himself  learn,  .that  inherited  dignity, 
like  the  ancient  mansion  or  moss-covered  tower,  though  grand 
and  imposing  in  the  distance,  may  betray,  in  its  internal 
garniture,  nothing  but  dilapidation,  decay,  and  poverty. 
But  let  a  laudable  ambition  stir  up  the  latent  energies  of  his 
mind ;  let  him  resolve  to  step  into  the  ranks  of  the  active 
and  diligent  classes  of  his  fellow  men ;  let  him  employ  his 
name,  his  wealth,  and  his  influence,  in  promoting  the  great 
enterprizes  of  the  day ;  let  him  be  found  standing  side  by 


134  TrtE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

side  with  other  public  benefactors ;  and  let  the  community 
in  which  he  lives  feel,  to  its  remotest  pulsations,  the  effects 
of  his  energetic  action  :  and  then  may  he  hope  —  nay,  he 
may  be  certain,  that  the  great  name  which  he  has  inherited, 
will  lose  none  of  its  dignity,  while  in  his  possession  ;  that 
the  monuments  of  his  worth,  will  rise  up  on  every  side ;  and 
that  he  will  transmit  to  his  posterity,  all  his  ancestral  hon- 
ors, undiminished  and  untarnished. 

But  suppose  the  young  man  has  none  of  these  advanta- 
ges? Suppose  he  starts  on  the  journey  of  life,  with  a  per- 
fect consciousness  that  he  possesses  nothing  above  mediocrity, 
either  in  talents,  or  literary  attainments,  or  wealth  ?  Nay, 
suppose  that  he  should  in  all  or  any  of  these  respects,  fall 
far  below  the  medium  standard  of  those  around  him?  Is 
this  any  reason  why  he  should  be  content  to  grovel  forever 
in  obscurity,  and  make  no  effort  to  rise  into  the  respectable 
if  not  the  distinguished,  classes  of  his  fellow-men?  Cer- 
tainly not.  He  lies  under  no  ban  of  exclusion.  He  may 
never  indeed  make  a  great  statesman.  He  may  not  be  se- 
lected for  the  highest  places  of  political  rank.  And  perhaps 
it  might  be  idle  for  him  to  indulge  in  any  such  aspirations. 
But  he  can  do  what  is  infinitely  better.  In  whatsoever  cir- 
cumstances Providence  may  have  placed  him,  he  can  make 
the  place  he  occupies  honorable.  Be  the  occupation  what 
it  may,  the  way  is  open  to  respectability  —  to  competency 
—  to  a  reputation  worthy  of  all  commendation.  Steady  ap- 
plication, persevering  industry,  scrupulous  integrity  and  self- 
respect,  all  stimulated  by  a  laudable  ambition  to  excel,  will 
accomplish  every  thing.  And  the  obscure  and  humble  young 
man,  who  rises  by  his  own  efforts  to  honor  and  respecta- 
bility, may  be  assured  that  he  runs  no  risk  of  incurring  the 
envy,  or  jealousy,  or  hatred,  of  the  world.  The  reverse  of 
this  is  witnessed  every  day.  He  who  will  help  himself,  will 
see  thousands  of  hands  stretched  out  to  help  him.  None 
but  fools  and  coxcombs,  cast  scorn  upon  his  origin,  or  sneer 
at  his  low  birth,  or  poverty,  or  meanness  of  intellect.  But 
all  stand  ready  to  bid  him  God-speed,  and  cheer  him  on  his 
way  to  merited  distinction. 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK,  135 

«  . .' .  • 

CAKOLINE. 

BY     A.     E.     GORDON. 

SMILED  the  moon  from  heaven  brightly, 

Radiant  shone  the  stars  above, 
Watching  o'er  the  dim  earth  nightly—* 

Watching  with  a  parent's  love! 
Upward  strove  the  swelling  waters, 

Pleased  with  Luna's  magic  sway, 
Like  to  Earth's  most  lovely  daughters 

When  their  hearts  have  flown  away — • 

Faithful,  though  all  else  betray. 

Silent  sat  a  gentle  maiden, 

Sat  her  lover  silent  there: 
Ne'er  was  bark  so  precious  laden  — 

He  so  gallant,  she  so  fair! 
Sadness  gloomy  seemed  to  hover, 

Melancholy  drear  to  'twine, 
O'er  the  heart  of  him,  her  lover, 

And  the  beauteous  Caroline; 

Feelings  none  can  e'er  define. 

Calm  and  smooth  the  lake  was  flowing, 

Glided  o'er  its  face  the  bark; 
While,  unheeded,  swift  was  growing 

All  the  sky  with  vapors  dark. 
First,  the  breeze  came  moaning  lowly, 

Like  a  strain  of  music  sweet; 
First,  the  ripple  moved  but  slowly 

Upward,  once  again  to  meet, 

And  its  playmate  fondly  greet. 

Higher,  fiercer  toss'd  the  billow  — 

Quicker,  faster  rush'd  the  wind; 
And  the  bark,  like  branch  of  willow 

Trembling,  left  the  shore  behind. 
See  the  lady,  bending  tearful! 

See  her  lover  deathly  pale! 
Lest  the  boat  that  sped  so  fearful, 

Should,  the  morrow,  tell^  a  tale 

Fraught  with  cause  of  deepest  wail. 


136  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK 

Roared  the  angry  tempest  madly, 
Raged  the  turbid  waters  high, 

While  the  lovers  'round  them  sadly 
Gazed,  with  wild  and  anxious  eye. 

With  a  crash  the  bark  was  riven, 
Riven  with  a  mighty  blow: 

Then  arose  a  shriek  to  heaven  — 
Such  a-  cry  of.  bitter  wo, 
Trust  we,  none  again  may  know! 

Onward  to  the  mighty  ocean, 
Trembling  with  the  sullen  tide, 

Floated,  with  a  gentle  motion, 
They,  the  lovers,  side  by  side. 

Faithful  to  each  other  cleaving, 
Though  the  stoimy  wave  beneath; 

Not  each  other  ever  leaving, 
Even  to  their  latest  breath — 
'.Till  within  the  grasp  of  death. 


Sought  their  friends  and  kindred  over 
Land  and  water  all  in  vain; 

For,  fair  Caroline  and  lover 
They  will  ne'er  behold  again! 

Far  beneath  the  ocean  billow 
Now  their  forms  serenely  rest, 

Heeding  not  their  stony  pillow, 
As  their  faithful  spirits,  bless'd, 
Upward  flew  at  God's  behest. 


LINES. 


BY   T.   W.    RENNE. 

As  with  small  means  in  life  we  first  essay, 

And  win  to  wealth,  by  slow  degrees,  our  wayj 

So  must  our  wit  make  small  advances  first, 

Till  the  full  sun  of  knowledge  on  us  burst; 

So  genius  struggles  up  the  heights  of  fame  — 

Gains  present  honor,  and  a  deathless  name. 

Will  what  thou  may'st,  thou  shalt  thy  purpose  gain, 

If  firmness  urge,  antl  prudence  hold  the  rein. 


THE    PRINTER'S   BOOK.  137 


LA  FIORAJA. 


BY     3  .     BAYARD     TAYLOR. 


MILD,  solemn  October — the  twilight  of  the  year!  The 
\vinds  have  not  yet  forgotten  their  summer  softness,  and 
late  asters  twinkle  like  stars  through  the  shade  of  thickets. 
But  the  leaves  are  falling ;  morning  after  morning  you  can 
see  them  dropping  thicker  and  more  frequent,  loosened  by  the 
early  frost,  till  all  day  long  there  is  a  shower  through  the  tall 
woods.  They  are  dropping  around  me  now,  with  a  sound 
like  soft  rain,  and  the  many  clasping  arches  through  which  I 
see  the  sky,  are  fast  losing  their  tracery  of  painted  arabesques. 
A  clear,  broad  stream  is  below  me  —  blue  and  fathomless — 
for  it  holds  the  autumn  heaven ;  and  away,  through  the  light 
haze,  some  purple  hills  rise  with  a  long  curve  above  the 
horizon.  The  crystalline  brightness  of  the  atmosphere  touches 
them  with  a  clear,  glowing  purity ;  and  gazing  on  their  soft 
outlines,  my  soul  goes  back  to  Italy. 

It  is  but  a  thought  —  a  moment  of  electric  fleetness — and  I 
am  in  Florence.  I  wander  over  the  Fonte  Vecchio,  looking 
through  its  central  arches  at  the  Appenines,  or  bargaining  for 
luscious  figs  with  the  merry  contadini;  I  stroll  for  hours 
through  the  Royal  Gallery,  or,  in  the  matchless  Tribune,  lose 
myself  in  enraptured  trance  before  the  divine  St.  John,  or  the 
sad  beauty  of  Guercino's  sybil.  How  freshly  after  two 
years'  absence,  come  up  again  the  slightest  incidents,  the  most 
trifling  objects,  even  the  very  thoughts  of  my  happy  sojourn ! 
There  is  scarcely  a  stone  in  the  streets  I  do  not  remember.  I 
could  paint  the  laurel  avenues,  the  clumps  of  fan-like  pine,  and 
the  spiry  shafts  of  the  cypresses  in  the  Boboli  Garden,  bough 

18 


138  THE   PRINTER'S   BOOK. 

for  bough,  as  they  looked  when  I  last  saw  them.  Delightful 
Florence  !  how  often  do  I  climb  in  thought  to  the  convent  of 
San  Miniato,  and  look  down  on  thy  dome  and  airy  belfries,  and 
over  that  Paradise  of  Val  d'Arno  !  Many  Autumns  must  pass 
before  I  shall  see  again  the  fair  valleys  of  Tuscany  —  yet  to- 
day I  will  re-trace  my  old  wanderings,  for  Memory  needs 
neither  passport  nor  conveyance  in  her  travels.  Will  you 
hear  a  simple,  yet  I  trust,  not  entirely  profitless  record  of  a 
character,  whose  remembrance  I  cherish  with  a  deep  and  ro- 
mantic interest  ? 

Opposite  my  rooms  in  the  Via  Vacchereccia,  was  one  of  the 
handsome  cafes  which  abound  in  Florence  —  spacious,  showy 
establishments,  where  men  of  all  nations  meet,  to  talk  over  the 
gossip  of  the  world,  over  their  coffee,  or  a  flask  of  the  golden 
vintage  of  Orvieto.  The  tourist  is  always  certain  of  finding 
there  the  principal  sheets  of  Paris,  Marseilles,  Rome,  and 
Genoa,  as  well  as  Galignani's  universal  "Messenger,"  and  the 
equally  familiar  Augsburg  Gazette.  Politics,  however,  are 
tacitly  avoided,  at  least  in  the  lingua  Toscana ;  for  though  the 
government  is  disposed  to  be  liberal,  other  influences  are 
mingled  in  the  affairs  of  Italy,  and  the  stranger  is  by  no  means 
certain  that  there  is  no  secret  agent  of  the  police  within  hearing 
of  his  words.  Social  intercourse  is  less  trammelled,  and  the 
cafe  often  proves  a  convenient  neutral  ground,  from  which 
friendships  of  the  strongest  character  often  date  their  com- 
mencement. Even  the  Englishman  there  at  times  forgets  his 
nationality  ;  the  German  who  is  everywhere  at  home,  and  the 
American,  who  can  make  himself  so,  if  he  will,  have  less  dif- 
ficulty in  domesticating  themselves  to  cafe  life. 

Having,  therefore,  rendered  my  countenance  familiar  to  the 
Swiss  garzone,  I  felt  perfectly  at  home  at  the  "Cafe  di  Minerva." 
In  the  mornings,  when  the  bell  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  woke 
me  with  its  musical  chime,  I  hastened  down  to  enjoy  "  Le 
Siecle"  over  a  cup  of  coffee;  and  often  after  our  jovial 
dinner  in  an  old  palace  but  a  few  paces  from  the  birth-place 
of  Dante  Alighieri,  we  returned  —  a  genial  company  of  paint- 
ers, sculptors,  and  one  humble  scribe  —  to  lounge  an  hour 
over  the  marble  tables,  and  talk  of  our  homes  beyond  the  sea. 

At  such  times  we  were  sure  to  be  visited  by  La  Fioraja  — 


THE     PRINTERS     BOOK 


139 


charming  Fioraja  —  whose  vivid  Italian  beauty  we  admired 
even  more  than  her  basket  of  breathing  flowers.  At  least, 
I  always  saw  the  eyes  of  my  friend,  the  young  painter,  grow 
bright  with  admiration,  or  it  may  be  with  so  much  gazing 
on  her  own,  as  she  came  up  to  us  with  a  graceful  cour- 
tesy. He  tried  hard  to  catch  their  color  and  dewy  lustre,  but 
his  memory  invariably  forgot  its  duty.  He  would  have 
painted  them  from  the  lovely  model,  but  La  Fioraja  was  proud 
—  her  very  glance  checked  the  artist,  when  he  would  have 
proposed  this. 

Perhaps  I  have  already  said  enough  to  explain  the  melodious 
title  by  which  we  knew  her.  She  belonged  to  a  class,  which 
springing  up  originally  in  Florence,  seemed  to  have  been  a 
growth  of  the  simple  and  poetic  Tuscan  character.  The 
foreigner  is  charmed  with  the  beauty  of  these  flower-girls, 
who,  in  their  broad  straw  hats,  the  rim  of  which  falls  on  their 
shoulders,  and  their  fragrant  baskets  on  their  arms,  enter  the 
hotels  and  cafes,  and  bestow  on  the  guests  these  offerings  of 
their  genial  climate.  They  ask  nothing  for  their  daily  gifts  ; 
every  morning  they  are  brought  with  a  smile,  or  when  the 
face  grows  kind  and  familiar,  a  few  words  of  cheerful  gossip* 
and  it  is  left  to  the  stranger's  generosity  to  repay  this  delight- 
ful attention  by  a  parting  donation.  There  is  something 
exceedingly  poetical  in  this  absence  of  all  bargaining — a  recog- 
nition of  sacredness  in  the  delicate  gifts  themselves  —  which 
invests  the  custom  and  those  who  follow  it,  with  a  character 
of  beauty  not  always  belonging  to  them.  The  profession,  if 
such  it  may  be  called,  is  now  invaded  by  less  worthy  follow- 
ers, and  having  been  adopted  in  other  cities,  is  beginning  to 
lose  its  local  characteristics.  The  flower-girls  of  the  Champs 
Elysees,  witty  and  vivacious  as  they  undoubtedly  are,  still 
cannot  borrow  the  charming  simplicity  of  the  Tuscan  Fioraja. 
The  language  spoken  by  these  latter,  is  that  of  Petrarca  and 
Boccaccio,  and  it  loses  none  of  its  music  on  their  lips. 

Although  generally  of  humble  extraction,  they  have  a  taste 
and  natural  refinement  of  feeling,  which  at  first  notice  sur- 
prises the  stranger.  But  when  Florence  is  more  familiar  to 
him — when  he  strays  through  its  unequalled  galleries,  and 
sees  the  peasant  feasting  on  their  treasures  of  Art,  with  a  less 


140  THE 

perfect  appreciation,  doubtless,  but  with  as  deep-felt  an  admi- 
ration as  the  prince — he  ceases  to  wonder.  Where  every 
street  is  adorned  with  some  work  of  an  immortal  master, 
which  is  familiar  from  childhood  to  the  eyes  of  the  people,  the 
common  mind  partakes  unconsciously  of  a  pure  spiritual  fount, 
too  often  sealed  to  the  rich  and  prosperous  in  our  own  land  ; 
and  hence  it  is,  that  a  love  for  the  arts  seems  to  be  a  natural 
element  in  the  Italian  character.  Our  Fioraja  seemed  to  have 
an  unerring  perception  of  character  and  taste,  and  never  failed 
to  bestow  her  flowers  accordingly.  It  was  to  me  an  interest- 
ing study  to  watch  her  quick  choice  of  boquets,  and  its  justifi- 
cation in  the  countenance  of  the  receiver  —  and  rarely  indeed 
did  she  seem  to  make  a  wrong  disposal.  Once  she  laid  a  few 
blossoms  before  an  old  gentleman  who  was  sitting  opposite  to 
me,  buried  in  the  perusal  of  a  newspaper,  which  he  had 
monopolized  the  whole  morning,  notwithstanding  the  polite 
hints  of  the  waiter,  that  others  had  repeatedly  desired  it.  He 
merely  lifted  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her :  the  hard,  cold 
expression  of  his  countenance  was  unsoftened  by  a  single 
gleam  of  feeling  or  "  speculation,"  and  as  he  rose  to  leave,  he 
left  the  flowers  where  they  had  been  laid.  They  were  the  last 
she  ever  offered  him.  Another  time,  I  observed  a  young  man, 
apparently  a  German,  whose  face  was  marked  deeply  by  the 
traces  of  some  settled  sorrow.  She  hesitated  but  a  moment  in 
approaching  him,  and  placed  upon  the  table  a  cluster  of  roses. 
I  thought  her  gift  inappropriate ;  but  a  second  glance  showed 
me  that  the  blossoms  were  white,  and  bound  up  with  them  was 
a  sprig  of  the  mournful  cypress.  The  stranger  took  them 
mechanically,  and  though  his  face  did  not  change  its  sad 
expression,  I  saw  that  his  eyes  grew  dim  with  tears.  She 
had  recognized  the  tone  to  which  his  spirit  soonest  responded. 
La  Fioraja  and  I  were  soon  acquaintances  —  as  far  as  my 
broken  Italian  would  permit  conversation.  My  room  in  the 
tall  house  opposite  was  kept  continually  fragrant  by  the 
myrtle,  heliotrope  and  roses  she  brought  me  every  morning. 
As  the  clear,  cold  days  of  November  came  on,  and  sharp 
winds,  that  had  been  sweeping  around  the  snowy  top  of 
Monte  Morello,  came  down  into  Val  d'Arno,  some  of  the 
more  delicate  blossoms  faded,  and  at  last  she  had  only  the 


141 


hardy  geranium  and  the  beautiful  Tuscan  rose,  which  blooms 
along  sun-shiny  terraces  the  whole  winter  through. 

"  Fioraja,"  said  I,  one  cold  morning,  "  why  do  you  not 
bring  us  the  same  sweet  flowers  as  formerly?  Your  basket 
is  getting  much  lighter  than  it  used  to  be." 

"  Ah,  signor,"  she  answered,  speaking  of  the  flowers  with 
a  manner  that  reminded  me  of  Nydia's  song: 

"  Hark,  what  the  poor  things  say, 
For  they  have  a  voice  like  ours!" 

— "  Ah,  signor,  non  vogliono  fiorare  piu.  They  do  not 
like  to  blossom  in  these  cold  days.  I  shall  have  to  let  them 
sleep  till  the  Spring  comes  ;  and  then  I  shall  have  violets 
for  you." 

"  But,  Fioraja,  I  shall  not  be  here  when  the  Spring  comes. 
And  when  the  violets  blossom  I  hope  to  gather  them  at  home." 

"Signor,  can  you  leave  Italy — can  you  leave  beautiful 
Florence  ?" 

"My  own  country,"  said  I,  "is  dearer  to  me  than  even 
Italy ;  and  if  you  were  there,  you  would  say  that  it  was  nearly 
as  beautiful.  We  have  flowers,  too,  in  America,  as  bright  and 
abundant  as  these." 

"  In  America !"  she  exclaimed ;  adding  in  a  lower  tone, 
"  you  are  then  an  American  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  I ;  "  did  you  never  see  one  before,  you  seem 
so  surprised  ?" 

"  I  never  ask  the  signori  whence  they  come,  but  I  knew 
some  one  once  who  went  to  America." 

"  Ah,  bella  Fioraja,  is  it  some  one  very  dear  to  you,  who 
has  gone  to  my  country  ?" 

For  an  instant  there  was  something  like  a  proud  dignity 
in  her  countenance,  but  resuming  her  usual  playfulness,  she 
answered  with,  I  thought,  some  sadness  in  her  voice :  "  Yes, 
signor,  it  was  one  dear  to  me  —  molto,  molto  caro !" —  and  it 
is  impossible  to  describe  the  melting  tenderness  which  these 
words  have  on  an  Italian  tongue. 

She  took  up  her  basket  and  left  me.  I  respected  what  I 
thought  an  artless  avowal  of  some  early  attachment;  and 
though  she  sometimes  questioned  me  with  great  apparent  in- 


142  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

terest  respecting  America,  I  was  careful  to  avoid  referring 
to  a  subject  which  I  supposed  might  awaken  sorrowful  re- 
membrances. Still,  1  could  not  help  feeling  some  curiosity 
as  to  the  domestic  relations  of  La  Fioraja.  Words  escaped 
her  almost  unconsciously,  at  times,  that  showed  her  to  be  pos- 
sessed of  a  mind,  which,  even  though  ft  might  have  been  ex- 
panded by  a  limited  share  of  education,  must  have  been  naturally 
superior  to  those  of  her  class.  But  there  was  a  quiet  dignity  in 
her  manner,  which  repelled  the  questions  I  felt  tempted  to  ask. 
I  was  convinced  that  there  was  serious  thought,  and  perhaps 
experience  hidden  behind  her  every-day  gayety. 

One  evening  I  was  sitting  alone  in  the  Cafe  di  Minerva. 
There  were  but  few  guests  present,  none  of  whom  were 
known  to  me.  La  Fioraja  entered  as  usual,  and,  laying  aside 
my  paper,  I  waited  her  coming  up  the  hall,  stopping  here  and 
there  at  the  half-deserted  tables.  But  a  short  distance  from 
me,  sat  a  young  Frenchman,  whose  gay,  careless  deportment, 
and  air  of  unabashed  selfishness  and  self-possession,  marked 
him  for  one  of  those  wandering  roues,  who  often  find  it  con- 
venient to  leave  Paris  for  a  season,  and  seek  amusement  in  the 
intrigues  and  jealousies  of  Italian  society.  As  she  was  in  the 
act  of  leaving  him  her  accustomed  gift,  he  seized  her  hand  with 
a  bold  familiarity.  She  quietly  withdrew  ft,  and  was  about  to 
proceed,  when  he  made  some  whispered  remark,  whose  insolent 
freedom  roused  all  the  indignant  pride  in  her  nature.  Step- 
ping back  hastily,  she  cast  upon  him  a  look,  whose  withering 
scorn  even  he  could  scarcely  support.  As  she  turned  towards 
me,  her  lip  had  still  its  disdainful  curve  ;  and  the  soft  lustre  of 
her  eyes,  which  my  artist-friend  was  so  enthusiastic  in  prais- 
ing, had  kindled  into  lightning.  Child-like  as  she  usually 
seemed,  she  was  now  all  woman. 

I  could  not  but  mark  how  suddenly  she  changed  again  to 
the  lively  flower-girl.  There  was  always  an  under  current  of 
earnestness,  even  in  her  gayety,  which  prevented  the  thought 
of  lightness ;  and  I  knew  she  was  not  one  from  whose  heart 
the  memory  of  either  injury  or  kindness  would  easily  pass 
away. 

"  Fioraja,"  said  I,  with  some  share  in  her  own  indignation, 
"in  my  country,  you  would  find  more  respectful  treatment 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  143 

You  must  not  think  as  many  do  here  in  Italy,  that  we  are  a 
nation  of  savages.  We  have  something  of  the  chivalry  which 
your  ancestors  once  had,  and  we  pay  everywhere  honor  and 
respect  to  woman." 

La  Fioraja's  heart  must  have  been  a  proud  one,  for  her 
glowing  look  seemed  to  thank  me  for  my  country's  sentiment. 
She  paused,  as  if  pondering  some  sudden  thought;  she  looked 
at  me,  in  doubt  —  then,  as  if  something  had  confirmed  into 
resolution  the  half-formed  design  floating  in  her  mind,  she  bent 
nearer,  and  whispered : 

"  Signer,  since  I  knew  you  came  from  America,  I  have 
wondered  whether  I  might  ask  a  favor  of  you.  But  it  is  a  fa- 
vor which  cannot  be  granted  without  your  learning  a  secret 
of  my  own — a  secret  known  to  no  one  beyond  the  walls  of 
my  dwelling.  After  what  has  passed  to-night  I  think  I  can 
trust  you ;  the  more  especially  as  you  say  you  have  but  a  few 
days  to  spend  in  Florence.  It  would  be  a  happiness  to  my 
father  to  see  one  who  comes  from  America,  and  you  may  on 
your  return  home,  be  able  to  do  us  all  a  great  kindness.  I 
ean  tell  you  no  more  now,  for  see  the  signori  are  noticing 
my  delay  ;  will  you  not  meet  me,  to-morrow  evening,  at  this 
hour,  at  the  Fountain  of  Neptune,  which  you  know  stands  in 
the  square,  beside  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  ?" 

I  assured  her  earnestly  that  she  might  trust  in  my  com- 
pliance, and  in  the  faithful  keeping  of  any  trust  she  should 
deem  me  worthy  of  receiving,  and  parted  from  her,  made  com- 
pletely impatient  for  another  day ;  for  the  least  trace  of  romance 
in  one  single  human  history  is  far  more  interesting  to  follow, 
than  the  novelist's  most  elaborate  and  exciting  inventions. 

Eight  was  chiming  from  the  tall,  turreted  tower  of  the  Pal- 
azzo, and  the  rich  moonlight  came  pouring  into  the  square 
through  the  arches  of  the  Uffizzi,  silvering  over  the  dryads  be- 
fore the  palace-door,  and  the  colossal  David — the  divine  work 
of  Michael  Angelo — as  I  stood  beside  the  fountain.  Neptune 
and  his  bronze  Tritons  cast  up  sparkling  showers  from  their 
twisted  shells,  and  their  muscular  figures  seemed  animate  in 
the  moonlight.  I  did  not  wait  long  for  La  Fioraja.  She  came 
lightly  and  quickly  across  the  open  square,  with  an  empty 
basket  in  her  hand.  "  Thanks,  signor !"  said  she,  huriedly  ; 
"  let  us  not  delay  !" 


144  THE   PRIN  TEH'S   BOOK. 

We  passed  down  the  brilliantly-lighted  Via  Calzolajo,  the 
Florentine  Broadway — =•  crossed  the  Cathedral  square,  with 
the  shining  marble  belfry  towering  above  us,  till  the  stars 
seemed  but  ornaments  on  the  tracery  of  its  needle-like  spires. 
Then  we  entered  one  of  the  long  narrow  streets  which  lead 
in  the  direction  of  the  Porta  della  Croce.  We  said  but  little; 
La  Fioraja  had  lost  her  sprightliness,  and  I  was  too  deeply  inte- 
rested in  the  issue  of  my  adventure,  to  question  her  prematurely. 
We  passed  between  the  tall,  black  prison-like  palaces,  as  old 
as  the  days  of  Cosmo  de  Medici,  with  which  this  part  of  the 
city  abounds.  Scarcely  a  single  person  was  to  be  seen  ;  the 
iron-barred  windows,  and  huge  massive  gateways  had  some- 
thing stern  and  forbidding  in  their  appearance  ;  and  the  nar- 
row, crooked  streets  shut  us  out  from  the  genial  moonlight. 
Down  a  narrow  alley  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Santa  Croce,  and 
knew  that  we  could  not  go  much  further  without  reaching 
the  city  wall,  whose  square  embrasures  were  already  visible. 
Turning  into  a  street  which  ran  parallel  to  it  and  opened  upon 
the  Arno,  we  stopped  before  an  old  palace,  which,  in  its  palmy 
tfays,  might  have  been  among  the  richest  in  Florence.  But 
its  aspect  was  now  dark  and  deserted.  No  light  came  from 
its  grated  windows,  and  no  sound  was  heard  within  to  give 
token  of  cheerful  existence. 

"  This  is  the  place,  signer,"  said  La  Fioraja ;  "  knock,  and 
you  will  be  admitted.  The  rest  you  will  learn  within."  With 
these  words,  she  entered  a  small  garden-door  and  disappeared. 

I  did  not  hesitate,  but  knocked  at  once  and  loudly.  After  a 
pause,  footsteps  were  heard  slowly  approaching,  and  the  rusty 
lock  grated  with  the  turn  of  an  unwilling  key.  The  door  was 
at  length  opened,  and  an  old  servant  holding  in  her  hand  a  tall 
iron  lamp,  saluted  me. 

"  Enter,  worthy  signor,"  said  she ;  "  the  lady  Fiammetta  is 
expecting  you." 

"  But,"  I  asked,  somewhat  surprised  at  this  speech,  "  where 
is  La  Fioraja  ?" 

"  You  will  see  her  before  you  leave." 

She  closed  the  door  after  me.  We  crossed  a  low  hall,  the 
ceiling  of  which  was  admirably  painted  in  fresco,  in  the  style 
of  the  old  Tuscan  master,  Volterrano.  In  the  centre  was  a 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  145 

sculptured  escutcheon,  At  the  end  of  this  hall,  a  flight  of  broad 
marble  steps  led  us  to  a  lofty  vaulted  chamber,  hung  with  old 
knightly  portraits,  which,  from  their  lines  of  resemblance,  and 
the  changing  styles  of  costume,  were  evidently  those  of  a  fam- 
ily which  could  trace  back  its  ancestry  to  the  days  of  the  Me- 
dici. A  few  master-pieces  by  the  old  painters  completed  the 
decorations ;  the  only  furniture  was  a  marble  table,  wrought 
in  rich  mosaic,  and  a  few  stately-looking  chairs,  which  seemed 
as  ancient  as  the  pakice  itself.  A  light  stood  upon  the  table, 
behind  which  a  tall  mirror  doubled  the  cheerless  splendor  of 
the  apartment. 

I  waited  some  minutes  in  intense  expectation,  wondering 
what  mystery  had  made  me  its  subject.  I  looked  at  the  table, 
the  pictures — I  stepped  to  the  window  which  opened  upon  a 
terrace  filled  with  flowers — and  gazing  into  the  moonlight,  was 
fast  losing  myself  in  a  labyrinth  of  conjectures,  when  I  heard 
a  footstep.  A  side-door  opened,  and  a  lady  entered,  before 
whose  stately  beauty  I  involuntarily  made  a  low  reverence. 
Her  dark  hair  was  braided  on  her  head,  and  clasped  by  a  cir- 
clet of  small  pearls  ;  she  wore  a  rich  satin  robe,  and  a  single 
diamond  of  surpassing  lustre  glittered  on  her  breast.  She 
came  up  to  me  with  a  smile,  and  I  started  back  astonished  at 
beholding  —  La  Fioraja  !  The  same,  yet  how  changed  !  Her 
pure  peasant  beauty  was  heightened  into  the  grace  and  lofty 
bearing  of  a  princess ;  the  gleam  of  the  dark  eye  was  firmer — 
the  curve  of  the  red  lip  prouder,  and  though  the  pure,  sweet 
brow  was  unaltered,  it  seemed  radiant  with  the  invisible  halo 
of  thought.  She  might  have  been  placed  with  the  jewelled 
dames  who  looked  on  us  from  the  walls,  (and  now,  for  the 
first  time,  I  saw  their  features  in  her  own.)  and  bden  honored 
as  the  noblest  of  them  all. 

"  Fioraja  !  —  pardon  me,  signora  !"  —  I  stammered. 

"  Nay,  my  friend,"  said  La  Fioraja,  or  the  Lady  Fiammetta, 
as  she  really  was,  in  the  same  sweet  voice  as  ever,  yet  with- 
out its  tone  of  careless  gayety  :  you  must  forgive  me  for  this 
evening's  mystery.  You  now  know  the  secret  which  I  scarcely 
dared  to  reveal.  This  is  the  palace  of  my  father,  Andrea  di 
Lavagna,  and  I  have  asked  you  hither  in  the  hope  that  you 
might  tell  him  of  the  country  in  which  his  unfortunate  son  has 

19 


146 

found  refuge,  and  it  may  be,  give  him  the  clue  to  some  knowl- 
edge of  my  poor  brother.  1  am  now  his  only  child,  and  the 
last  of  the  Lavagnas.  It  is  a  bitter  thought  to  my  father,  that 
his  name,  once  among  the  proudest  in  Genoa,  should  be  extin- 
guished —  and  he  so  loved  Antonio  !  Oh  signor,  if  you  know 
of  any  comfort  for  him,  Fiammetta  di  Lavagna  will  bless  you 
for  it !" 

"  Lady,"  said  I,  deeply  moved,  "  doubt  not  that  I  will  do  all 
I  may,  to  serve  you.     But  tell  me  of  your  brother." 

"  Alas,  signor,  it  is  a  sad  story.  I  was  many  years  younger 
when  Antonio  was  forced  to  leave  us.  All  my  father's  hopes 
were  fixed  on  him ;  he  had  seen  his  other  children  taken  from 
him,  one  by  one,  till  only  were  left  Antonio,  the  best  and 
bravest  of  all,  and  myself  who  was  then  a  child.  He  had  giv- 
en all  his  estates  in  Lombardy  and  Parma  to  Antonio's  keeping, 
reserving  only  this  and  some  other  trifling  property,  for  the 
support  of  his  few  remaining  years.  Antonio  was  generous 
and  noble-spirited ;  he  could  not  bear  the  foreign  yoke  which 
was  upon  Italy :  and,  stimulated  by  the  remembrance  of  his 
heroic  ancestor,  Fiesco,  in  an  unfortunate  hour,  joined  a  con- 
spiracy against  the  government.  The  terrible  fate  of  the  Car- 
bonari, but  a  few  years  before,  hung  over  him  ;  but  when  the 
band  was  broken  up,  and  its  members  seized,  he  escaped  to 
the  Appenines,  and  after  the  most  cruel  hardships,  reached 
Florence.  A  day  only  could  he  remain  with  us — he  had  con- 
demned himself  to  eternal  banishment,  and,  tearing  himself 
from  our  embraces,  hastened  to  Leghorn,  whence  he  sailed  to 
America.  Our  poor  father  was  nearly  heart-broken.  His  pro- 
perty, too,  was  lost  with  Antonio's  condemnation.  The  little 
left  us  was  not  enough  to  provide  for  our  wants,  and  preserve 
the  last  dwelling-place  of  our  ancestors.  The  two  or  three  ser- 
vants we  retained  were  faithful  to  me,  and  have  kept  my  se- 
cret— but,  signor,  my  father  does  not,  must  not  know  that  you 
have  seen  me  as  La  Fioraja !" 

"  What,  lady  !  have  you  thus  nobly  sacrificed  your  pride  of 
birth  to  filial  affection,  supporting  him  by  the  painful  alterna- 
tive of  assuming  a  character  far  below  your  station — below  the 
soul  you  inherit  ?  Oh,  lady,  this  is  nobly  done  ;  but  could  you 
not  have  spared  yourself  this  experience,  which  must  be  hard 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  147 

to  bear  ?     Here  are  paintings,  which  would  bring  you  gold  in 
abundance." 

"  Signor,"  replied  Fiammetta,  with  the  old  stateliness  in  her 
look  and  tone,  "  this  palace  and  these  paintings  are  all  that  is 
left  to  the  name  of  Lavagna.  They  have  been  inherited  from 
father  to  son  for  centuries.  They  will  be  the  only  legacy  we 
can  give  to  Antonio,  if  he  ever  returns.  I  would  beg  in  the 
streets  of  Florence,  sooner  than  part  with  them.  They  are  my 
own  consolation — they  remind  me  that  I  am  of  proud  and 
princely  blood.  If  in  the  streets  and  cafes  I  put  on  the  soul 
as  well  as  the  costume  of  La  Fioraja,  here,  at  least,  I  feel  my- 
self a  Lavagna !" 

The  excited  blood  rushed  to  her  cheeks  and  forehead,  as  she 
stood  with  one  arm  extended  towards  the  rare  paintings  on  the 
walls.  In  the  silence  of  the  moment,  as  the  loud,  rich  melody 
of  her  voice  died  away,  I  could  have  believed  myself  existing 
in  that  romantic  age,  whose  very  spirit  seemed  to  live  again 
in  her. 

"  Let  us  seek  my  father ;  he  has  been  told  that  a  stranger 
will  visit  him,"  she  said  at  length. 

I  followed  her  through  a  vaulted  passage,  at  the  end  of  which 
she  knocked  gently  at  a  door.  "  Enter,  my  child  !"  said  a 
voice  that  trembled  with  excess  of  age.  We  passed  into  a 
cheerful,  and  even  luxurious  chamber.  Vases  of  rare  flowers 
filled  the  windows — divans  of  velvet  graced  the  walls — and  a 
lute  curiously  carved  and  inlaid  with  pearl,  lay  upon  the  floor. 
An  old  man,  whose  beard,  snowy  with  eighty  winters,  fell 
upon  his  breast,  was  seated  in  a  large  cushioned  chair.  Fiam- 
metta, pressing  his  hand  tenderly  to  her  lips,  said  to  him  : 
"  This,  my  father,  is  the  signer  of  whom  I  spoke."  The  old 
man  bowed  his  head,  and,  faintly  beckoned  me  to  advance. 

"  You  are  from  America,  signor,  my  Fiammetta  tells  me. 
My  poor  Antonio  fled  to  your  country.  Oh,  if  you  have  heard 
but  one  word  of  him,  tell  it  to  me.  I  am  old  and  feeble :  I  can- 
not live  long — but  before  I  die,  I  would  hear  of  Antonio,  since 
I  may  not  see  him  on  earth." 

His  voice  grew  indistinct :  Fiammetta's  face  was  hid  in  his 
bosom,  and  his  tears  fell  upon  her  head.  How  I  longed  for 
some  angelic  messenger  —  some  spirit  of  earth  or  air,  com- 


148 


pelled  to  my  will,  to  bring  tidings  of  the  exile  !  How  I  tor- 
tured my  memory  in  the  vain  search  for  some  name  or  form 
which  might  have  been  their  Antonio  !  Taking  the  hand  of 
the  old  man,  I  knelt  beside  him,  and  tried  to  soothe  him.  I 
told  him  that  many  of  the  political  exiles  of  Italy  had  found 
refuge  in  America ;  that  some  of  them  had  risen  to  honor  ;  that 
in  my  country  there  were  paths  of  honest  life  and  ambition 
open  to  all,  and  that  the  generous,  manly  spirit  of  his  son 
would  be  sure  to  win  him  friendship  and  a  home.  Finally, 
I  promised  to  seek  for  him  on  my  return,  and  send,  if  possible, 
some  tidings  of  his  fate. 

He  listened,  and  his  grief  seemed  quieted  ;  laying  his  hand 
on  Fiammetta's  head  he  murmured:  "  God  has  still  been  mer- 
ciful :  he  has  left  me  one  dear  child !"  Oh,  the  unutterable 
love  and  devotion  which  answered  from  the  eyes  of  that 
child  !  "  Blessed  Virgin  !"  she  cried,  "  watch  over  our  Anto- 
nio, and  lead  him  back  to  his  home  and  the  hearts  that  are 
breaking  for  his  loss  !" 

I  joined  my  tears  to  their  own :  that  fountain  of  the  heart, 
which  had  been  early  dried  to  my  own  sorrow,  gushed  forth 
again  at  the  wo  of  others.  I  asked  and  received  the  old 
man's  blessing,  and  we  arose  and  departed. 

When  we  again  reached  the  picture-chamber,  Fiammetta 
said,  as  she  gave  me  her  hand  at  parting :  "  Forget  that 
Fiammetta  di  Lavagna  lives,  when  you  again  see  La  Fior- 
aja.  We  have  been  happier  for  this  interview  ;  may  you  be 
able  hereafter  to  make  us  happier  still !" 

I  wandered  slowly  back  to  the  Via  Vacchereccia,  deeply 
touched  with  this  unexampled  instance  of  filial  love  and  heroic 
devotion.  I  wished  for  gold,  for  rank,  for  political  power, 
that  I  might  aid  them,  and  haply  restore  the  exiled  Antonio. 
But  I  was  a  poor,  powerless  wanderer,  and  could  give  them 
but  a  wanderer's  sympathy. 

A  day  or  two  afterwards  I  left  Florence.  In  the  cafe  I 
again  met  with  La  Fioraja  —  the  same  bright,  artless  creature 
as  ever,  to  all  but  myself.  I  took  her  offered  bouquet  in 
silence  ;  this  time  it  was  composed  of  the  rarest  and  richest 
flowers.  My  words,  at  parting,  were  for  the  flower-girl,  for 
strangers  were  near  ;  but  my  glance  was  for  the  descendant  of 


T  H  E     P  R  I  N  T  E  R  '  S     BOOK.  149 

Fiesco.  In  obedience  to  the  universal  custom,  I  would  have 
made  her  a  parting  gift :  but  she  foresaw  my  intention,  and 
said,  in  a  low,  firm  voice :  "  Not  to  me,  signor !"  Many  a 
day  after  that,  in  toiling  through  the  wintry  Appenines,  on  my 
pilgrim-way  to  Rome,  did  I  rest  at  the  foot  of  an  olive  or 
wild  fig  tree,  and  opening  my  knapsack,  inhale  the  faded  fra- 
grance of  the  last  Tuscan  roses  I  received  from  her  hand. 

Two  years  have  passed  since  then,  and  I  have  not  found 
Antonio.  Meanwhile,  a  new  freedom  is  dawning  over  Italy, 
and  I  still  trust  that  he  may  one  day  return  to  Florence  —  to 
his  old  father,  and  Fiammetta,  the  princely  Fioraja  ! 


THE  REFORMER. 


BY     WILLIAM     O.     BOURNE. 

A    PROPHET,    speaking   in   the   HOLY    LAND, 

With   Promise   on  his   tongue,    and   sight  that  pierced 

The    cloudy  vista   of  the    coming   years, 

Made    known    MESSIAH  !     Thought    profound   and  vast, 

That   inspiration   gave, — and   burning   words, 

And   revelation   of  the   plan   of    GOD, 

In   awful   imagery    or   tender   strain,  — 

Gave    Hope  to   angels    who  had   hung  their   harps 

On   willows  sad,  —  and   spoke   of  Hope   to    Man. 

Poor  wanderer   from   paths    of  endless   life. 

Lo!    when   the   fulness   of  the    time   had  come, 
A   man   of  sorrows,    pouring  out   his   tears,  — 
That   meekly  walked,    and   spoke   eternal   life 
To   dying   man ;    that   lowly   bowed   with   grief 
To  give  unending   bliss ;    that   had  no  place 
To  lay   his   head ;    that    spoke   divinest    words 
Of  glorious  love ;    whose   voice    gave   life    in    death, 
And   sweetly   bade   the   erring   world    FORGIVE  ! 


150  THE    PR  INTER'S    BOOK. 

No   royal  birth  made  herald   of  his   day ; 

No   earthly   pomp   proclaimed   his   titled   name ; 

But  angels,    in   their    glory,    stooped   on   wings 

Of  heavenly    grace,    and   sung  their  holy   strain 

Of  Peace  on    Earth,    that  brought   Good   Will   to  man. 

CHRIST  the  Redeemer,   with   his   fallen   race 
Came  down  to   dwell !  —  To   walk   in  mortal   form, 
And   prophesy   of   peace    where  discord  reigned — 
To   give   immortal   food   to   souls   that  loved 
To  die !  —  To   break   the   captive's   chain,  and   set 
The    prisoner   free !  —  To   bid   the   troubled    sea, 
That  ever   tossed  its  waves   of  strife,  "  BE  STILL  !" — 
To  rend   the   tomb,    and  o'er   its  portals   write, 
"  I    am   the    Resurection   and   the    Life !" 
And   seal  the  Promise   with   Eternal   Love. 

The    Godhead   dies   in    Man !     Despised   of  men, 
The   worm  rejects    his    God!     The   proud  contemn, 
The   evil  curse,    the   scorners   mock,    the   vile 
Deride   the   Pure !     Messiah  dies  to   breathe 
The    God-like    word,  FORGIVE!     The    Giver   yields 
To   death,  and   bears  the   sin-avenging   stroke, 
And   leaves    His   Spirit   to  Reform   and    Save. 

Then   Prophets,  with   the   gifts   of  many   tongues, 

Declared  His   name.     The    Parthian   hung   his  bow, 

The   sacred   fires   went   out  on   Persian   hills, 

And   Greeks,    that   trod   the   classic  shades,   and   reared 

Their  altars   high,    adored    "THE  UNKNOWN  GOD!" 

Egyptians   left  their   Nile,  and   where   their   gods 

Of  every   form   were   worshipped,    spoke   His   name ; 

Arabs  that  roamed   the   dreary  waste,  were  tamed ; 

The   balmy   Ind  sent    forth   its    sweet   perfume 

To   mingle   with  the   praise ;    and    strangers  came 

And   learned,    and   spread   the   tidings   o'er   the   world. 

The   Pantheon,    where  demons   sat   enthroned 

In   mystery,    and  led   the   soul   to   death, 

Was    wrapped   in    Lethe's   night,  —  and   fabled   gods, 

In   shrines   forsaken,    mourned  their  worshippers. 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  151 

Faith   took  her   glorious   form,    and  Truth,    unbound, 
Spread   o'er  the    world  her   Hope-emboldened   wing. 

TRUTH,  THE  REFORMER,  met  the   hoary   Lie, 
And   gave  him   battle !     Deeds  of  glory   crowned 
His   brilliant  race,    and   from  the   Pagan   thrones, 
And   sunny  plains,    and   from  scholastic    walks, 
He   hurled  the  Azrael  legion   down  to   doom. 

But  Error  lingered  in  her   crimson   garb, 

And  o'er  the  nations   wove  her  dreamy   spell, 

In    years    of    Night.     She    took    the    radiant    page, 

And    with    Tradition's    web    obscured    its    light, 

And    hid    in    secret    cells    the    holy    word. 

Art    took    the    throne    of    Reason !      Gorgeous    piles, 

The    monuments    of    Thought    that    strove    to    gain 

The    Ideal    Beauty,    reared    their    costly    domes, 

And    shrouded    in    the   pictured    beam    of    light 

The    Worshipper.     Old    Superstition    won 

The    trusting    Faith,    and    Revelation    dimmed 

With    oft-repeated    tales ;    and    Priests    and    Kings, 

Enthroned    in    power,    or    sitting    in    the   place 

Of    GOD,    led    millions    in    their    bloody    paths, 

And    bound    their    faith    in    Fear's    corroding    chain. 

Then    THE    REFORMER    left    his    lonely    cell, 

And    standing    high    in    Heaven's    commissioned    right, 

Sent    forth    the    lightning-flash,    and    rent    the    gloom. 

Oh,    glorious    dawning    of   the    coming    day ! 

That    called    the    waking    soul    from    shades    of   death, 

And   bade    it    seek    the    Eternal !     O'er    the    hills, 

The    rays    went    leaping    on    to    distant    lands : 

From    Alpine    peaks    to    where    the    Pyrenees 

Look    down    on    flowery   Spain  —  or    Britain's    isle 

Is    laved    by    Northern    Seas ;  —  or    Norway's    strand, 

Where    sweeps    the    Maelstrom    to    its    centre    driven;  — 

Or    where    the    chosen    vine    with    purple    grape 

Gave    joy    to  Gallia's    sons ;  —  and    Teuton    tongues 

Their    vespers    sung;    and    soft    Italia's    sky 

Was    flushed    with    beams    of    Heaven's    imparted    bliss. 


152  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

But,    single    tongued,    the    Prophet    could    not    speak 

And    wake    the    world !     Then    Genius    gave    to  Art 

Inventive    Power.     In    night's    long    toilsome    hours, 

And    weary   days    of  care,   and    anxious   thought, 

Slow   shaping   to   its    end,  the   lab'rer    tasked 

His   longing   mind !  —  Great   thought   of  struggling  life ! 

To   multiply  the   page    and   scatter   wide 

The   leaves   that   healing   gave   to   wounded  hearts ! 

To  catch   the   words   divine,    and   give   them    wings 

Of  flashing  light — to   break  the   midnight   deep, 

And   on  the   moving   world  in   rapture  pour 

The   swelling  flood,  —  when  FAUST  revealed  THE   PRESS  ! 

O  ART  OMNIPOTENT!     Beyond   my  pen 

Aright  to   name! — that   woke  the  slumbering   world, 

And,    at   the   sacred   font   baptised   in   Truth, 

Gave   first   in   labors   long   the   Holy    Word  !* 

NOBLEST  OF  ARTS  !     Thus  consecrate   to   man ! 

REFORMER    in   the   robes  of    heavenly   light! 

Thy   rapid   feet  o'erstepped   the   giant   hills, 

And    crossed   the   dreary   waste,  —  o'erleaped   the-  wave 

And,  speaking   in   the   ears   of  nations   dead, 

Woke   Freedom's   cry   for  ever! 

Soon   the   chains 

Fell   off  in   rusty   links !     The    free-born  mind 
Burst   from   its  shackles,    and   its  race   began. 
And   though  the   Smithfield  fires  the  page  consumed, 
And   fierce  anathemas   were   madly   hurled 
Upon  thy   way,    triumphant   still   thy  voice 
Was  ever   heard!  —  REFORMER   clothed  in  might! 
The   angel  flying  o'er   the   world  to  wing 


*  It  is  a  singular  and  beautiful  fact  in  the  History  of  the  Art  of  Printing-, 
that  the  BIBLE  was  the  first  printed  Book.  It  occupied  ten  years,  from  1450 
to  1460,  to  execute  the  task.  In  the  year  1457  Faust  issued  the  Book  of 
Psalms,  marking  a  step  in  the  progress  of  the  work.  The  public  exhibition 
of  his  books,  in  Paris,  under  the  pretence  of  their  being  manuscripts,  gave 
rise  to  the  popular  story  of  "  Faust  and  the  Devil."  Being  charged  with 
these  unholy  dealings,  he  was  imprisoned,  when,  in  order  to  obtain  his  lib- 
erty, he  was  obliged  to  disclose  the  process  of  his  new  art.  The  pretended 
charge  against  him,  and  his  imprisonment,  were  probably  designed  to  extort 
the  secret  by  which  he  could  make  so  many  copies  exactly  similar  to  even 
the  minutest  strokes  and  points. 


THE    fRi.NTER'a- BOOK*  1531 

The   everlasting   Gospel,    and   proclaim 
Oppression's   doom !  —  To   bid   the    sightless   eye 
Look   up  and  see   its    Maker !— To   the   dumb, 
Who   bore   the  fetter,  give  resistless   power ! 
And   where  the   pris'ner  in  his   dungeon   lay, 
Or.  rayless  night   hung    round   the   toiling  slave, 
To  speak  Redemption  in   the  captive's  ear! 

No  more   the   scribe   with   trembling  pen   consumed 
His  waning  years !     No   more   the   parchment   rolled, 
With   page   illuminate,    in  monkish  cells 
Confined;    no   more   the   oft-repeated   tale 
Was   heard  unweighed;  —  Inquiry   stripped  the  mask 
Tradition   wore,  and   Learning  stooped   to   win 
The    simple   child   who   else  had   died  untaught. 
With   Science,  arm   in   arm   the   Prophet   walked ; 
When  proud   exploring  led    the   lofty  mind 
From  sphere  to   sphere,    where   systems  circle  round 
Th'    Eternal  Throne,    or   in   abysmal  search 
Brought  wonders   from  the   earth's   remotest   caves, 
He  caught  the   impress,    and    diffused  the  ray! 

t 

The   Poet   harped,   and   millions   heard  the  strain ; 
The   nunibers   rolled,    and   swift   o'er  many  lands 
They  gave  pulsation   to   the   quickened   heart 
And  woke   its   smothered  fire !     Where  freedom  rung 
Her  clarion  peal,    and   on   the  mountain  peak 
Lit   beacons   up,   or  in  the  lowly   vale, 
Where  quiet  hamlets   slept  in   lasting  peace, 
They   stirred  the  patriot  band!     The   Prophet  tongue 
Was    silent   as   the   page,    but   words   of  fire 
Made   hearts    to   burn,    and   kindled   up   the   vows, 
That,,    sworn   at   Freedom's   altar,    ne'er  shall   fail ! 

Prophet  of  many  tongues !    that  reached  the   throne 
Where   despots   sat,    or   in   the   lowly   cot, 
With  strain   impassioned,    spoke   of  right   divine! 
THE  WORLD'S  REFORMER  !  in  thy   thunder   peals 
Old   tyrants   heard  their   doom !     The   quaking  earth 
Rocked  wildly  at  their  feet,    and  swallowed   up 

20 


j  54  T  H  I     P  R  I  N  T  E  R  ' ' »   JB  O  O  K •. 

Pretensions  absolute    and    "  right   of  kings  ;" 
The    heaving    sea   that    nevermore    shall   rest, 
Till    HE    shall   speak  the    raging    waves    to  peace, 
Lashed   round   their   tottering   thrones,    and   swept   away 
The    sinking    sands,  and   on    the   ruins    left 
The   promise    of  the    Future !     Grasping   still, 
Like    skeletons    that  walk   in  films    of   flesh, 
Their   ancient   power,   they   hold    the   sceptre    forth 
With   trembling   fingers,    while    their    pulsea   beat 
With  speechless    dread !     The    Ahabs    who   have    led 
The  people    to   their   graves !     Whom,    cursing   deep, 
The    Profjhet  points   to  famine    in   their   prime ! 
The    Herod    crew    who    lay   their    butcher  hand 
Upon   the   prophets   who    would   bring   them   life. 
THE  WORLD'S  REFORMER!     Millions   hear   thy  voice, 
And   rising   from   their   chains,    in    native    might, 
Demand  thy   tones !       In    upright  form    they    stand, 
And   bid    their   tyrants   loose    thy   potent   tongue ! 
With    arm   uplifted   high,    to    Heaven's   blue   vault 
They  fling    the   promise   forth,/  and   where  thy   voice 
Proclaims   thine    altar,   there   they    stand    and   swear, 
By    life    and    death,   by    cherished  love  for   home, 
By   hate   for   damning   wrpng,  by   earth's   broad 
By   Heaven's   eterna)   name,    THEY   WILL    BE  FREE! 

O    WONDROUS  ART  !     By  thee    Columbia    speaks  ! 
By   thee   the   nations   of  the  earth  are   blessed ! 
Where'er  her   name  is   heard   and    Freedom's   star 
Shines  through   oppression's  gloom,    thy   thrilling  power 
Breathes  o'er   the   waking   world  !      The   freeman   treads 
On   distant   shores,    and   tribes   of  men   resound 
His  earnest    cry !     THE    PRESS,    inspiring  Hope, 
Makes  prophecy  of  Love.      It  points  the   eye 
To    western   skies   where    earth   is   still   unstained. 
Sclavonian   races    watch    the   guiding   star, 
And   with    Milesians    mingle   in    the    race 
To  Freedom's    throne.       The   Teuton   serf  awakes 
From  dreamy    sleep,    and    Alps    to    Ural   ring 
The   thunder    peal.     On   Tiber's   muddy   bank, 
t    Or  where    the   Lazarones    bask   out  their  days, 
y   famed    Geneva's   lake  reflects   the   stars. 


THE    PRINTER'S    B  o  o  k .  1 55 

tts   lightning  flash  is    speaking    from   the    sky. 
The   pris'ner  sees   it  in  his   cheerless   cell! 
The    slave   rejoices  though   in  rusty  chains ! 
Arid   ancient   hills,    where    Dion    trod  to  dust 
His  bleeding   foes,   return    the  rolling  hymn.       t 

O    ART   PRESERVATIVE  !       Thou  giv'st   to   thought 

tlncounted  utterings  !      Discovery    Breaks 

The  seal  of  mystery,  and  swift  she  flies 

With    countless   tongues   to   tell    a   waiting    world, 

Where    science   leads   to    secret   walks,    thy  path  f 

Is    known.     And    where   Philosophy   explores 

Long  hidden   Truth,    it  takes   thy   fbllest  ray. 

RECORDING    ART!       Historians    love    thy  birth,' 

And  Commerce  spreads   her    sails    at  thy    behest. 

To   thee  all    Art  is    bound  —  from    thee  receives 

New  power   and    form  —  preserving   all   that   gives 

Impress   of  beauty   to    the  inner    life. 

The   Sculptor    shapes  his   marble,  but  to    thee 

Must   bow !      The   Painter  makes  the    canvass    sneaky 

But  few    can    feel    the   impress !       Music    dies 

In   undulating   sound,    and   harps   ate  still ! 

And   Orators,    that   poured   impassioned    words 

Of   Eloquence,    give   up   their   sway — to  THEE! 

ENNOBLING    ART!     What   honored   names    are  thine! 

Scholars  like    him   that   versed   the    holy    page*  — 

Philosophers   that   turned  the   lightning's   path  — 

And   poets   who  have   tuned  the  winning   lyre  ! 

The  soul,    bright   effluence    from    the    Sun  Eternal* 

Orbing   its    circuit   in  its    godlike    sphere, 

Is   full   of  Promise !       Forth   from  bliss  it  came: 

Baptized    in   angel    harmonies   that  rung 

From  sphere   to  sphere,    when    morning   stars   awoke 


.,  *,  ROBERT  STEPHENS,  a  Printer  and  accomplished  scholar,  of  Paris.  The 
Bible  having  been  divided  into  chapters  by  a  Roman  Catholic  Cardinal,  in 
the  year  1240,  the  Old  Testament  was  subdivided  into  verses  by  a  Jewish 
Jtabbi,  in  the  year  1440.  Stephens  accomplished  the  subdivison  of  the 
New  Testament  in  his  leisure  hours,  while  on  a  visit  from  Paris  to  Mar- 
seilles, in  1563. 


1 56  TrtE     PRINTER 's     BOOK. 

Their  seraph   strain!    when  Heaven's    divinest  choirs 
And  earth's   unsullied   scenes,  —  and    Ocean's    waves, 
That  joyous   worshipped   round   Elysian   Isles, — 
And   winged  birds,  —  and   harmless    beasts  that   roamed 
On   verdant  hills,  —  and   in   the    sunny   ray 
Insects  that   hummed  their  busy   hymn  of  love, 
And   Nature,   in   her  virgin   robe    attired, — 
Looked   up,    with  dewy    eyes   of  grateful  love, 
And  poured  their   praise   in    Heaven's  attentive   ear! 

Great   destiny  of  being !    thus   to  hear, 

First  sound   that   caught    Perception's   listening   sensej 

The   blessing   of  the   Giver!     Countless   spheres, 

And   circling  systems  in   unmeasured   paths 

Rejoiced  that  Goo  had   given   another   orb 

To   love's  domain ;  where   Joy  immaculate 

And   holy   Faith,    that  linked   the   new-born   soul 

To   glory   infinite,  should   reign   supreme. 

' 

Dwelling  of  GOD   in  Man !      Great  thought   in   being ! 
That   linked   Divinity  to   dust  —  that  made 
Earth's  dust   a   temple,   where    His   spirit   breathed 
And  bade    Hope   swing  her  censer ;    while  with   Faith, 
And  Harmony   that   drew   the   strains   of  bliss 
From   spirit   harps  that  round  the   Tree   of    Life 
Were   ever   strung,  they   caught   the  living   fire. 
Love's   golden  altar  set   with   radiant  gems 
Of  pearly  deeds ;    life-giving  Truth  that   shone 
With    Glory's  seal,  and   Purity   that  looked 
With  angel   eye    on   Earth,  then   sought   her    God. 

Dwelling  of  Man  in    GOD  !     That   woke   the   dust 

And   gave   it  life — that  took   a  wondrous   form, 

And   walking  forth  in   Earth's   first  sinless  hours, 

With  thought   contemplative,    enwrapped   in  bljss, 

Adored   th'   Eternal  Author !     Child  of  light, 

He   sought   th'    Unfailing  Source!      Endued    with  thought, 

He  soared   in  lofty   mood,    and   walked   unfrayed. 

At   evening   shades   with   Mind   Unsearchable! 

The    air  was   full  of  Him!      The  breathing   winds 

That  swept  o'er  flowery   meads   and  fanned  his  brow 


157 


Spoke   silently  of  GOD.      The   cooling  shade 

Was   worship's  holy  veil.     The   lofty   trees 

With   rustling  leaves   spoke  symphonies   of  praise. 

The   flowing   stream   that  mirrored  forth   the   stars 

Spoke   of  the    River  from  the  Throne.      The  birds 

Woke  melodies  that  thrilled   the    soul    with   strains 

Of  gentle   love  !      The    lion  spoke   of   GOD 

With  kingly   voice  !      T^he  noble   beasts  that   roamed 

O'er  vocal   hills,    and    finny   tribes,  and   things 

Of  humming  wing,    replied   in   many    tongues, 

Or   flashing   gleam,    and   with   Creation's-  lord 

Kept   sweet   companionship!     All   spoke   of  GOD  ! 

All   pure,    all   praising,    all   in    worship  led 

The   mind   to    GOD!      The   stars   allured  the   eye 

To  heaven's   blue    depths,  where    full   in   beauty   rolled 

The    virgin  moon  !      The   sun   woke  morning   songs, 

And   all  day  long,    and   in    the  evening   walks, 

And   night's  deep   shades,    the  soul  communed  with   GOD 

Him   seen.    Him   known,    Him  worshipped   and   adored. 

But   soon  an  angel  from  the  dusky   realm 

Of  death    and  gloorn,    The    Tempter,    came    and    broke 

The   holy   chain  :  —  Unloosed    the   pearly   gates,         '*  % 

Unbound   the   worshipper,  —  his   incense   turned 

To  gloom,    his    faith   to   doubt,  gave    Hope   distrust, 

Bade   Love  sink   down  to   self,    made    Truth  a   lie, 

And  turned   the  robe   of  Purity  to  dross. 

Time   brought   the    silvery   crown   for   aged   man, 

And  made  his    Paradise    a   Vale    of  Tears! 

Earth   bore   her   thistles  —  loving  beasts  went   forth 

And   fought   untamed  —  and  lightnings  flashed   their    wrath, 

And   thunders   awful  spoke   from   heavy   clouds 

That   wrapped   the   sky,    and    man   from   glory  fallen, 

Bore    Sin's  condemning  stain   to  seal  ihe   doom. 

Tall   Anakims   of  sin   that  trod  the  earth 

In    iron  mail,  and  bound    the  captive    tribes 

To    chariot   wheels   that   dragged   the  victims    down 

To   hopeless  dungeons  in    the    vales   of  woe, 


1 68  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

Built   thrones   of  gold,    and    set   them   round   with   things 
Of  costly   birth  —  the    toil   of  millions    wronged  — 
The   tears    of  generations    turned    by   lust 
To   crystal   gems  —  the   alchemy   of  death, 
That   made    the    sigh   of  one   breathe  joy    for   him 
Who    wrung   the   pang  —  that   made    the    bleeding  vein 
Yield  iife    for   him    who   slew   his    brother  —  welled 
Sweet   nectar   forth   from   springs   of  deep   despair. 

• 

The   Anarch   in    confusion  sought   and   found 
His    Golden    Age!       Where  Riot's   tempest  ruled 
And   swept   the    Earth,  —  whence    Order  fled  dismayed^ 
And   Peace   resought   her  native    home    on   high, — 
He   sported   mid   the    Ruins !      Reaching   forth 
With   dastard   hand   he    tore    Love's    altar   down, 
And    set   his   Ashtaroths   in    chosen    groves, 
With    Fraud's    insensate   brood    of  Baalim 
Innumerable,   and   on   their   altars   burned 
Hate's   incense   with   the    offerings  of  the    dead. 

Nimrods,  that  hunted   down   the   human   flock 
In   Babel   strifes,  spread    War's   remorseless   woe 
In    blood   and    carnage.       With    their  robber   hosts 
Well   marshalled,  and   their   swords   of  lust   and   fire; 
They   slew   the    weaker : — Made    a    central    law 
Of  Might,    round  which   they   wove  their   ruffian    plei 
Of  conquering    Right,    and  gave    the    world    a*    creed 
Of  infamy   and   wrong:  —  With   despot   heel 
Trod  o'er  the  helpless  victims,  while  they  wrung 
Their  bitter  cries  from  pierced  hearts,  and  cursed 
With  deep  despair  the  feeble  soul!     The  plains, 
Made  fertile  with  their  blood,  gave  harvest  fruits ; 
The  reddened  streams  the  feet  of  mountains  laved, 
And  wide  domains,  that  else  had  trimmed  the  vine 
And  pressed  the  autumn  juice,  filled  goblets  up 
With  crimson  draughts,  and  dyed  the   Warrior's  hand. 

The  Sea,  that  spoke  sublimely  of  its  God, 

And  made  her  harmony  in  Nature's  choir,  — 

Type  of  the  Unchanging  One  who  made  its  shores,  — 

Gave  sport  for  man.  who  mocked  its  sforms  and  fears 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  159 

In  Crime's  pursuit ;  who  dar,ed  his  puny  barJ$; 

Upon  its  mountain  wave,  in  search  of  sin; 

Who  rode  its  boundless  waste  for  GOLD,,  and  left. 

His  guiding-star,  his'  landmarks  sure,  his  all, 

For  cheating  GOLD  ! — The  God  of  fallen  man  T 

The  altar  whe.re  were  slain  uncounted  souls ! 

The  shrine  wher.e  deathless  spirits  offered  up 

Infinite  bliss,  and  took  the  yellow  dross 

Of  grovelling  Earth  for  Heaven's  eternal  fields !" 

The  mart  where  Glory  at  a  discount  fell 

In  Mammon's  bid ;  where  Love,  by  ingots  weighed, 

Corrupted,  lost  her  name ;  where  parents  sold 

Their  children's  fame,  and  took  their  pay  in  GOLD. 

Kings  bartered  millions  of  their  slaves  for  GOLD. 

Princes  were  dead  to  all  things  else  but  GOLD. 

And  Justice,  in  her  temple  blinded  well, 

And  Priests,  that  taught  the  oracles  of  life, 

Learned  Death  from  GOLD.     Debasing  all  that  caught 

Its  winning  charm,  it  paved  the  way  to  Death! 

O  World !    how    deeply    fallen    from    thy    sphere^ 
O  Mind !    how    lost  thy  noblest  wing  of  thought ! 
0  Soul !    how  base  thy  form  —  how  lost  art  thou 
To  GOD'S  similitude  —  how  deep  thy  stain ! 

O  ART  DIVINE  *     In  thee  the  world  shall  find 

Its  GREAT  REFORMER  !     Knowledge  springs  from  thee 

As  flashes  light  in  noonday's  golden  beam ! 

On  darkened  minds  thy  leaping  rays  shall  pour, 

And  where  the  written  page  outweighed  the  gold, 

And  mouldered  silent,  or  to  archives  gave 

Surpassing  worth,  the  child  shall  toy  in  thee ! 

The  sightless  win  thee  from  the  printed  page ! 

The  deaf  have  visual  prophecy  of  bliss ! 

And  they  whose  tongues  were  never  loosed  to  speak 

Rejoicing  words,  can  break  their  silent  spell! 

PROPHET  OF  MANY. TONGUES!     To  truth  divine 
Thy  foot  was  consecrate !     O'er  distant  lands 
Thy  path  has  led,  and  long-untutored  tribes 
Thy  presence  feel,  and  learn  the  brighter  way. 


160  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

Thy  handmaid,  Faith,  —  that  points  the  darkened  eye 
From  earthly  sense  to  Hope's  seraphic  wing  — 
Giving  true  law  to  nations  springing-  now 
From  Error's  night,  and  bearing  healing  leaves 
From  Life's  loved  Tree,  that  in  its  freshness  blooms. 
The  exile  from  his  home  who  flies  to  teach 
The  wandering  soul,  with  thee  declares    the   balm. 
Where  China's  millions  at  their  altars  bow, 
And  Japan's  children  tread  the  Christian's  Cross 
•        Beneath   their  feet ;    and  on  the   balmy  plain 

Where    Brama  leads  the   Hindoo   to  his    shrine,  — 
To   where    the    Tartar  roams,  or   driving  snows 
Sweep   down    Siberian  hills    to   Northern   Seas  — 
Thy  voice  shall   speak. 

From  where    Pomare*   gave 
First  uttering  to  thy  voice,  to   coral  isles 
That  breast   the   rolling   surf,   or   giant   peaks 
That   lift   their   hoary  brows   o'er   beating  waves ; 
Where   wild    Fijiis  demoniac  orgies  hold 
O'er   conquered  foes,    and   grand  Marquesan  hills 
Preserve  their   silent  reign  ;   to  Austral   wastes, 
And  o'er  the  Countless  Isles,  —  thy   power   shall   speak! 

The  jargon  tongues   of  Afric's  burning  sands 

Shall   take   their   written   language   from   thy  skill, — 

And  mystic  hieroglyphs,  that  hide  the   lore 

Of  Egypt's  brightest  age,  shall  give    to  thee 

Their   secret  thoughts  —  and  mossy  monoliths 

That   deck   Palmyra's  wastes,   shall   bow   to   thee. 

The  classic   walks  where   sages   stood   and   spoke 

Their   cherished   words,  —  and   ancient  hills,  where  rose 

The   polished   marble   on   their  summits   high, — 

Byzantium's   crowded  gates,   and   steppes  vast 

Of  Russia's  wide  domain, — Italia's  scenes, — 

The  towering  Alps,  —  the  fields  of  sunny  France, — 

And  where  the  ice-bound   shores   address  the  Pole 


*  Pronounced  Po-ma-re.  He  introduced  printing  into  Polynesia,  by  set- 
ting up  the  first  types  on  the  10th,  and  taking  the  first  impressions  on  the 
press  on  the  30th  of  June,  1817. 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  161 

With   stormy  surf,  and   bright   Auroras   light 

The  wintry  sky, — thy  countless  tongues  shall  speak! 

All  round   the    world  thy  Prophet  path  shall  shine! 
REFORMER   thou!    with   gift  of  every  tongue. 
Thy  sway   shall   reach  the  sons  of  every  clime ! 
NOBLEST   OF   ARTS  !  —  REFORMER  !  —  A RT   DIVINE  ! 
To  Truth   first   consecrate !     Thy  spirit   be 
Imparted  from  on   high!     The  Gospel  wings 
To   every  land   by  thee !     Thy  name  shall    pour 
Extatic   light   on  Adam's  wandering   race. 
Faith   puts   her   trust   in   thee   in    earnest  prayer ! 
Hope   spreads   her    wings    and    with   awaking   power 
Bids   Love   put   on   her  sandals  clothed   in    Peace ! 
And  bearing    Knowledge   on  thy  speeding  way, — 
With    Science   aiding  Truth,  —  our    God   to    thee 
Shall   give   his    Spirit    to   reform   the    world ! 


SONNET. 

JAMES,  chap.   ii.    v.  1—16. 
BY     THOMAS     W.     RENNE. 

DID   your   hearts    feel   the   truths   your   lips   profess  — 
Did    faith    and    life   harmoniously    blend, 
Nor   that  to    heaven,    and    this   to    mammon   tend  — 

How   many    then    the   life    they    curse    would    bless, 

Who   pine   in    vice,    and    want,   and   wretchedness ! 
Ye    self-deceived!    a    willing    ear    who    lend 
To   the   false    spirit   that    calls    Heaven   your   friend! 

God   will   the    wrongs   of  poverty  redress : 

Go    on,    and   heap    up   riches — pile    on   pile  — 
To    mock   the    woes   that   compass  you   around ; 

But   know,    the   vengeance  doth  but  sleep   the    while, 
That    on   your   heads    shall  fall    with    sudden    bound, 

And    strike   you    from   the    temples   you   defile, 
As   rotten    branches  —  cumberers    of   the  ground! 
21 


102  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 


THE  CHURCH-YARD. 

WHO  is  there  that  in  walking  over  the  mounds,  or  in  con- 
templating the  tombs  of  the  Church-Yard,  has  not  experienced 
a  sensation  of  sadness?  Here  stands  the  marble  and  gilded 
monument  of  wealth,  and  by  its  side  humbly  rises  a  little  hil- 
lock of  earth,  scarcely  denoting  its  meaning — true  emblems 
of  worldly  reality.  "  The  pomp  and  circumstance"  of  pride 
and  power  would  fain  endeavor  to  preserve  their  fictitious 
distinctions  though  the  body  had  become  dissolved  in  dust; 
the  humble  hillock  of  the  poor  presents  a  proper  contrast ; 
and  as  the  storms  of  time  assail  it,  the  mound  meekly  sinks  to 
its  level,  and  the  spot  where  rests  the  plebeian  is  forgotten. 
Yet  not  long  can  pride  continue  the  contrast,  for  the  winds 
and  the  rains  assault,  too,  the  marble  and  the  gilt,  and  the 
brightness  of  the  stone's  record  is  obliterated.  Though  above 
the  surface  the  distinctions  and  grades  of  life  may  be  preserv- 
ed for  a  time,  beneath  —  here  rests  the  test — all  is  equality; 
the  ashes  of  the  rich,  the  poor,  the  haughty,  and  the  humble, 
mix  promiscuously;  and,  as  said  the  good  bishop  Donne,  "The 
winds  scatter  the  dust  —  sweep  it  into  the  aisles  of  the  chapel, 
and  it  is  trodden  under  foot  by  the  living.  The  sexton 
gathers  it  up ;  but  can  he  sift  it,  and  say,  this  is  the  patrician 
brand  —  this  is  plebeian  dust?  p.  c.  B. 


The  Primary  School  and  the  Steam  Press. —  Powerful  aux- 
ilaries  for  educating  the  people  into  a  clear  understanding  of 
their  rights  and  wrongs.  May  their  influence  hasten  the  time 
when  Republican  Liberty  shall  become  universal. 


The  Press.  —  THE  cloud  by  day  and  the  pillar  of  fire  by 
night — given  to  lead  man  from  out  the  wilderness  of  super- 
stition and  ignorance. 


t  H  K    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  163 


THE    D  E  A  D    M  A  R  I  N  E 


BY    H.    C.    JOHNSON. 


THE  pleasures  of  society,  the  comforts  of  home,  the  warm 
grasp  of  the  hand  of  friendship,  the  welcome  fireside  of 
Winter,  and  the  agreeable  relaxation  at  the  close  of  a  sul- 
try Summer's  day,— are  luxuries  which  the  sailor  hears 
spoken  of  with  sensations  like  those  we  feel  when  we  hear 
enjoyments  adverted  to  peculiarly  the  province  of  another. 
They  "who  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships  and  do  business  upon 
the  great  waters,"  are  sometimes  reflectingly  spoken  of  by 
those  who  should  know  better.  From  the  nature  of  their 
calling,  seafaring  men  are  almost  wholly  deprived  of  what 
constitutes  the  landsman's  sum  of  earthly  joy.  They  are  ever 
revolving  upon  the  verge  of  society's  ameliorating  influences ; 
they  become  habituated  to  deprivations,  and  indifferent  to  the 
claims  of  their  fellows  by  being  alienated  from  them.  Those 
who  have  experienced  something  of  "  a  life  on  the  ocean 
wave,"  can  appreciate  the  force  of  this  reasoning,  and  know 
full  well  that  the  life  of  a  sailor  is  a  practical  illustration  of 
the  doctrine,  that  where  little  is  given  much  should  not  be 
required. 

To  be  self-exiled  from  the  sweets  of  home  and  country, 
while  ambition  fires  the  heart,  and  the  cheek  is  redolent  with 
youth  and  vigor,  is  not  so  severe  a  trial  but  that  young  Hot- 
spurs take  pleasure  in  its  measured  indulgence :  it  is  the  bright 
coloring  of  the  picture.  But  to  stand  by  the  hammock  of  a 
shipmate  in  a  foreign  land,  in  the  lone  hour  when  the  soil 
is  summoned  to  put  on  her  robes  for  the  great  audience  chan  - 
her  of  eternity,  with  no  mothers  hand  to  wipe  the  death 
damp  from  the  whitening  forehead,  no  sister's  tears  to  bedew 
the  pillow  of  the  dying,  is  indeed  a  bitter  task.  How  have  I 


164  THE   PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

seen  the  mysticisms  of  the  materialist  and  the  aimless  dogmas 
of  the  infidel  paled  to  gossamer  transparency,  before  the 
searching  light  emanating  from  the  "  great  white  throne"  of 
Omniscience,  at  such  a  moment.  The  soul  assumes  her  pre- 
rogative then,  and  the  subtle  reasoning  which  convinced  in 
health,  loses  its  potency  when  the  vivifying  essence  of  man 
essays  to  launch,  without  a  compass,  upon  the  unknown  ocean 
of  eternity. 

There  was  a  marine  on  board  our  vessel  in  whose  welfare 
I  felt  a  deeper  solicitude  than  sailors  are  apt  to  cherish  for 
a  soldier  :  the  general  calamity  of  shipwreck  having  prostrated 
those  barriers  usually  existing  between  the  two  classes,  and 
a  "sense  of  fellow-feeling"  imperceptibly  led  us  to  act  kindly 
towards  each  other.  Unintentionally,  young  Donaldson  had 
offended  the  captain's  cook,  a  huge  St.  Domingo  negro,  who 
would  not  hear  a  derogatory  word  spoken  of  his  master  with- 
out reporting  the  author.  The  difficulty  between  them  had 
settled  into  a  fixed  dislike,  about  the  period  of  our  misfor- 
tune, and  the  revengeful  black  was  anxiously  waiting  for  an 
unguarded  word  to  fall  from  Donaldson's  lips.  The  men  grew 
mutinous  when  it  was  reported  that  an  effort  was  to  be  made 
to  get  our  dismantled  craft  back  over  the  quicksand  bar,  on 
which  she  had  suffered  so  severely.  The  idea  was  scouted  as 
a  desperate  undertaking,  and  inuendoes  passed  from  one  to 
another  which,  if  traced  home,  would  have  rendered  their 
authors  amenable,  to  a  court-martial. 

A  group  of  sailors  were  angrily  discussing  our  doubtful 
prospects  one  evening,  and  Donaldson,  who  was  standing  by, 
sided  with  the  men  in  the  opinion,  that  he  must  be  insane  who' 
seriously  proposed  going  to  sea  in  a  vessel  in  the  sad  condition 
of  ours.  The  idea  was  attributed  to  the  captain  ;  and  his 
cook,  passing  at  the  moment,  overheard  the  remark.  The 
trap  was  sprung,  and  the  poor  marine  was  the  victim.  The' 
next  morning,  while  the  mess,  of  which  he  was  a  member, 
were  gleaning  a  scanty  breakfast  from  fibrous  sweet  potatoes,, 
and  pulverized  farina,  the  master-at-arms  came  down  with  a 
pair  of  handcuffs,  and  he  was  ordered  into  the  brig  (i.  e.  placed 
under  arrest).  Lying  nearly  under  the  equator,  on  a  barba- 
rous coast,  with  our  provisions  nearly  exhausted,  and  no  pros- 


pect  of  a  fresh  supply,  the  days  and  nights  grew  irksome  to 
those  who  had  permission  to  roam  at  will.  How  galling  it 
must  have  been  to  young  Donaldson,  his  limbs  ironed,  a  sen- 
try stationed  over  him,  and  with  the  liberty  of  only  a  few 
feet  of  the  deck  in  which  to  stretch  his  stiffened  limbs.  To 
add  to  his  loneliness,  we  were  moored  in  a  narrow  stream, 
skirted  on  either  side  with  wood,  and  at  night  the  beasts  of 
the  forest  filled  the  air  with  their  frightful  howls. 

His  sensitive  nature  bore  up  against  the  indignity  for  a  time, 
but  the  dread  of  a  court-martial,  its  possible  verdict,  together 
with  the  oppressive  sultriness  of  the  climate,  and  the  feverish 
water  we  were  obliged  to  use,  at  length  prostrated  him 
a  victim  to  the  malaria  incident  to  the  coast.  Placed  in  his 
hammock,  by  order  of  the  physician,  he  raved  in  feverish  deli- 
rium almost  incessantly.  At  times  he  would  talk  of  his  sisters- 
and  absent  friends ;  picture  the  enjoyment  in  reserve  for  them 
when  he  should  return  ;  the  many  happy  hours  they  would 
wile  away  listening  to  the  story  of  his  adventures.  Then  he 
would  plead  with  the  captain  for  his  release,  offering  his  youth 
as  an  extenuating  feature  for  an  unintentional  offence.  When- 
reason  resumed  her  throne,  he  would  be  too  weak  to  con- 
verse and  though  suffering  little  bodily  pain,  he  was  gradually 
sinking. 

One  evening  as  I  sat  by  his  hammock,  I  took  his  emaciated 
and  almost  transparent  hand  in  mine,  and  observed  that  it  was- 
nearly  wasted  away. 

Looking  me  full  in  the  face,  with  an  expression,  the  remem- 
brance of  which  clings  to  me  with  vivid  distinctness,  while  the 
muscjes  of  his  mouth  twitched  convulsively,  he  said:  "  Yes, 
yes  —  and  my —  my  heart,  too  !" 

I  felt  a  choking  sensation  about  my  throat,  whilst  the  big 
tears  chased  each  other  in  quick  succession  down  the  poor  fel- 
low's altered  countenance. 

After  a  moment  he  continued  :  "Isn't  it  hard  to  feel  that  we 
are  leaving  the  world  so  far  from  those  we  love,  and  who  love 
us  ?  I  am  not  superstitious,  but  I  hear  those  monsters  ashore 
howling  dismally  through  the  night  for  my  body,  and  my  heart 
tells  me  their  longing  will  soon  be  appeased." 

I  tried  to  dispel  the  sadness  gathering  round  his  heart — to 


166  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

cheer  up  his  drooping  spirits,  but  I  left  him  with  gloomy  fore- 
bodings. 

I  recollect  I  retired  to  my  hammock  unusually  sad  that  night, 
and  though  we  stood  quarter-watches,  and  I  should  be  called 
at  three,  yet  full  an  hour  before  we  were  summoned  to  our 
stations,  I  was  walking  the  deck  alone.  The  more  unob- 
servedly  to  indulge  in  pleasant  memories  of  home  and  absent 
loved  ones,  I  ascended  to  the  top-gallant  forecastle.  Not 
a  sound  broke  upon  the  stillness  of  the  hour,  save  the  occa- 
sional sharp  crack  of  the  dry  twigs  as  they  yielded  beneath  the 
ponderous  feet  of  the  hippopotamus  returning  to  his  home  in 
the  delta  below  us.  The  stars  gazed  down  in  mellowed  radi- 
ance, upon  the  scene,  and  all  —  the  hour  and  place  —  invited  to 
pensive  melancholy.  As  I  crossed  the  deck,  an  object  eleva- 
ted above  it,  attracted  my  notice,  and  stepping  up  to  learn 
what  it  might  be,  I  beheld  a  broad  piece  of  white  canvass 
spread  over  a  prostrate  form,  stiffened  and  rigid  in  death  ! 

Poor  Donaldson !  The  interview  I  have  related,  was  the 
last  lucid  moment  he  ever  enjoyed,  and  with  the  mantle  of 
obscurity  wrapped  about  his  mental  vision,  he  had  been 
ushered  within  the  vestibule  of  futurity. 

The  following  morning  he  was  conveyed  ashore  by  a  guard 
of  marines  to  a  spot  scooped  out  in  the  hot  sand,  where  were 
deposited  the  wasted  remains  of  the  young  soldier.  As  the 
blue  smoke  curled  up  over  his  humble  mound  from  the  dis- 
charged muskets  of  his  sorrowing  comrades.  I  fancied  it  an 
incense  offered  up  to  the  manes  of  the  departed. 

I  have  often  remarked  at  sea,  that  one  calamity  frequently 
pilots  the  way  to  its  fellow.  In  less  than  one  week  .after  the 
fatal  sequel  to  the  marine's  arrest,  the  Captain  was  called 
by  an  awful  casualty,  to  follow  the  dead  soldier — to  tread 
the  dark  "  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death"  —  and  his  body 
was  deprived  of  the  rites  of  sepulture  by  the  pitiless  waves 
of  the  sea. 


The  Inventors  of  Printing. — Truth's  trustiest  champions  — 
Superstition  sold  them  to  Satan — Knowledge  redeemed  them 
—  Humanity  crowned  them  \\ith  undying  Fame. 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  167 


MAN'S  STRENGTH  AND  WEAKNESS. 


KNOW  THYSELF.' 


BY     PETER     C.     BAKER 


MAN  is  the  sublimest  structure  of  Nature — the  master  of 
the  material  world  —  moulding  and  subjecting  to  his  will 
the  roughest  and  richest  of  earth's  possessions,  and  using 
all  as  implements  of  his  skill  and  as  playthings  of  his  fancy. 

View  Man  in  the  midst  of  the  world's  wonders  —  "the 
monarch  of  all  he  surveys" — marking  the  track  he  would 
take,  and  bidding  the  sea  follow  his  footsteps;  striking  the 
rock  with  his  rod,  and  commanding  it  to  stand  back,  and 
leave  a  path  for  his  iron-hoofed  horse  ;  staying  the  subtle, 
electric  courier,  and  making  it  bear  his  message  to  distant 
parts  on  threads  in  air ;  curbing,  by  his  genius,  the  strife  of 
the  elements,  and  setting  bounds  to  their  fury. 

See  him  in  the  storm,  when  the  thunder  and  the  lightning, 
the  ocean  and  the  whirlwind,  are  all  warring  for  the  mastery. 
Unmoved,  unawed,  he  stands;  —  small  in  stature,  feeble  in 
strength,  as  but  a  mote  upon  a  mountain,  mildly  marking  in 
his  "mind's  eye"  the  tumult  and  terror  of  the  tempest.  See 
him  while  the  waters  lift  their  heads  to  the  clouds,  and  sport 
with  the  ship  as  with  a  feather,  dashing  and  lashing  the  bound- 
ing bark  —  raising  to  the  fearful  summit,  and  engulphing  in 
the  awful  chasm  below — threatening  destruction  and  death 
with  every  roll,  and  yet  daring  not  to  destroy  !  See  him  then, 
confident  and  fearless,  combating  with  winds  and  waves,  and 
steering  steadily  on  his  destined  course.  Undaunted  and  un- 
conquered  he  ascends  the  mountain  crest,  and  sweeps  the  deep 
gulf,  till  the  cheering  sun  and  the  placid  calm  greet  his  cry  of 
victory  !  The  roar  is  hushed,  the  winds  are  stilled,  the  waves 


168  THE 

are  vanquished,  and  the  spirit  of  the  storm  sinks  in  slumber, 
leaving  the  tiny  cup  the  mistress  of  the  sea ! 

Man  is  supreme  —  the  sea-king  and  the  lord  of  the  land. 
The  winds  waste  their  violence,  and  the  lightnings  shoot  their 
fire  upon  an  iron  rod  !  The  kite  is  in  the  sky — -the  philosopher 
beneath  the  rain  and  amid  the  storm,  fingers  the  fiery  fluid  as 
a  toy,  and  places  on  the  house-top  a  herald  of  safety; — the 
lightning  is  captive. —  man  is  secure,  and  conqueror  ! 

Man  is  monarch  —  the  moulder  and  the  builder  —  but  sub- 
ordinate to  his  Maker,  in  whose  image  he  was  created,  and 
whose  attributes  he  inherits.  What  a  noble,  and  yet  a  fearful 
thought,  that  each  mind  is  a  spirit  emanating  from  Divinity  — 
a  soul  immortal ! 

Man's  mind  is  made  to  reason  and  reflect ;  to  ascertain  and 
act.  Mind  is  free— -  free  to  exert  its  powers  for  great  good,  or 
immense  evil ;  it  can  be  nurtured  and  strengthened,  or  weak- 
ened and  debased.  Its  capabilities,  its  limits  of  expansion,  we 
cannot  define  —  so  vast  the  field,  so  sublime  the  means;  and 
yet,  ignorant  as  we  are  of  our  own  powers  of  acquisition,  we 
do  know  how  low  man  may  be  brought — -below  animal 
instinct,  to  the  very  verge  of  dumb,  dormant  existence  —  a 
sun  without  a  light ! 

True  it  is,  that  he  who  can  bend  the  elements  to  his  will, 
and  wield  them  at  his  pleasure,  —  he,  who  as  vicegerent  of 
Deity,  can  cause  the  dormant  mass  to  glow  and  teem  with 
life,  and  the  darkness  of  the  depths  of  sea  and  land  to  reveal 
**  gems  of  purest  ray  serene."  and  make  the  wild  and  desolate 
become  the  abode  of  elegance  and  refinement —  majestic  man, 
the  arbiter  of  his  own  destiny,  and  the  lord  of  the  material 
world,  may,  heeding  not  his  innate,  immortal  impulse,  become 
the  abject  slave  of  his  own  subject ; —  the  poor,  pitiable,  be- 
sotted beggar,  craving  and  crying  for  the  deadly  drug  which 
drains  his  blood,  and  drags  him  down  the  abyss  of  ruin ! 

The  terrestrial  God  —  the  great  giant  of  Nature  —  giving 
impress  and  office  to  the  lower  world  —  the  intellect  which 
illumines  and  arranges  the  darkness  and  confusion  of  chaos, 
and  without  whose  presence  all  creation  is  as  nothing  —  the 
keeper  and  tiller  of  the  garden,  is  deluded  by  the  false 
tongue  of  the  serpent,  falls  asleep  in  his  snare,  and  is  coiled 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  169 

and  crushed !  Oh,  mysterious  Nature  !  Magical  Demon  !  Poor 
dupe,  couldst  thou  not  see  the  glittering,  envenomed  eye  of 
the  basilisk,  mocking  at  thy  glee,  and  aiming  at  thy  heart! 
Couldst  thou  not  scent  the  poisoned  breath,  or  hear  the  fear- 
ful hiss  !  No  !  Thou  wert  too  strong,  too  gigantic  and  great, 
to  cope  with  so  mean  a  foe ;  and,  secure  in  thy  impregnable 
might,  wert  conquered  by  thy  weak  vassal,  thy  false  friend  ! 

It  is  truly  a  matter  of  surprise  that  the  nobler  qualities  of 
our  nature  are  often  dethroned  and  deprived  of  their  proper 
office  by  the  most  casual  and  insignificant  causes.  Think,  for 
a  moment,  upon  the  wreck  of  many  a  noble  spirit  which,  but 
for  some  small,  trifling  event,  would  have  blessed  the  world, 
and  been  blessed  in  return,  and  confess  your  wonder  at  the 
influence  of  so  mean  an  instrument. 

There  is  oftentimes  only  a  single,  short  step  between  tran- 
quil security  and  the  most  dreadful  peril.'  The  mere  sight  or 
countenance  of  a  thing  even  doubtfully  dangerous,  may  lure 
the  unsuspecting,  ingenuous  heart,  into  the  snares  and  folds  of 
the  fallen.  A  man  may  face  and  defeat,  by  his  energy  and 
resolve,  dangers  and  trials  almost  unearthly  ;  he  may  see 
death  stalking  before  him,  and  strong  in  resolution,  will  over- 
awe and  disarm  his  adversary;  and  yet  the  same  valiant  and 
unconquerable  hero  hearkens  to  the  siren's  song,  and  without 
a  struggle  or  a  murmur,  surrenders  to  the  most  merciless  of 
foes,  deemed  too  weak  to  require  resistance. 

The  absence  of  thought  upon  this  element  of  our  nature, 
or  a  disregard  for  this  truth,  has,  we  are  free  to  declare, 
occasioned  the  wreck  of  more  minds  than  all  the  united 
assaults  of  open,  unmasked  depravity. 

It  not  unfrequently  happens,  as  all  must  have  observed,  that 
the  man  most  noted  for  great  abilities  and  transcendent  tal- 
ents, is  yet,  upon  many  so-called  smaller  matters,  surprisingly 
defective.  The  strange  anomaly  is  often  presented  of  one 
strong  in  intellect,  mighty  in  reason,  and  wise  in  the  abstract 
and  abstruse,  so  feeble  in  strength  of  moral  character,  as  to 
confess  himself  the  abject  slave  of  his  own  appetites.  The 
opposite  to  this  is  also  sometimes  seen; — that  of  a  man, 
mean  it  may  be,  in  intellect  or  station,  and  yet  the  control10 
of  his  passions  —  his  own  master; — the  serf  of  no  serpent 

23 


170 

sin ;  —  but  poor  and  humble  as  he  is,  the  keeper  of  himself  I 
Which,  think  you,  is  the  wiser  man  —  the  high  and  gifted,  or 
the  poor  and  lowly  —  the  one,  though  capable  of  swaying  the 
million  at  his  will,  yet  too  weak  to  govern  his  own  thirst ;  the 
other,  humble  and  alone,  with  none  to  hear  his  words,  but  still 
the  ruler  of  his  own  soul ! 

A  neglect  of,  or  a  regard  for,  first  or  primary  principles, 
explains  the  contrast.  The  small,  minor  matters  were  too 
insignificant  for  the  consideration  of  ihe  mighty  mind,  and 
hence  the  humiliating  spectacle  of  a  giant  without  strength  — 
a  Samson  and  a  Delilah.  But  to  the  lowly  laborer  the  little 
links  were  deemed  necessary  to  form  the  true,  strong  chain  of 
character,  and  hence  his  strength,  his  safety. 

Would  we  keep  our  hearts  pure,  and  our  minds  free,  the 
very  appearance  of  evil  must  be  shunned,  and  first  attention 
bestowed  upon  the  smallest,  simplest  temptations,  which,  though 
appearing  weak  and  impotent  in  themselves,  yet  contain  the 
germs  of  direst  evil. 

"  Vice  is  a  monster  of  so  frightful  mien, 
As,  to  be  dreaded,  needs  but  to  be  seen ; 
Yet  seen  too  oft,  familiar  with  her  face, 
We  first  endure,  then  pity,  then  embrace." 

He  who  will  not  study  the  weakness  of  his  nature,  and 
passes  by  primary  principles,  can  never  reach  or  remain 
secure  in  a  lofty  station.  Firm,  lasting  fame  can  only  be 
gained  step  by  step.  It  is  the  result  of  gradual  progression. 
The  foundation  must  be  built  stone  by  stone  —  closely  cement- 
ed and  bound  by  the  keystone  of  virtue  —  not  leaving  a 
breach  here  and  a  break  there,  by  which  the  arch  is  weak- 
ened and  finally  falls  ;  but  commencing  correctly,  and  pro- 
ceeding slowly  and  cautiously,  laying  each  block,  the  small 
as  well  as  the  greatest,  in  its  appropriate  place,  a  basis  may 
be  laid  fitted  for  the  superstructure  of  highest  honor. 

He  who  has  sounded  the  depths  of  his  soul,  and  knows 
exactly  where  lie  the  rocks  and  quicksands  of  life,  will  always 
so  steer  as  to  avoid  danger,  and  gain  the  haven  of  his  hope ; 
while  the  ignorant,  unskilful  pilot,  who  has  never  thrown  out 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  171 

line  or  plummet,  or  looked  at  the  chart  of  life,  must  inevitably 
be  shipwrecked  and  lost ! 

Man  can  truly  know  his  strength  and  his  weakness  by 
studying  himself;  and  God  has  commanded  him  to  do  this. 
The  precept,  "  Know  thyself,"  is  an  imperative  duty  we 
owe  to  our  Creator  and  to  ourselves.  We  must  study  our 
natures  —  the  evil  as  well  as  the  good  —  our  strength  and 
our  weakness.  We  must  ascertain  exactly  what  we  are, 
who  we  are,  where  we  are,  and  whither  wandering. 
Every  faculty  must  be  made  the  subject  of  study.  By 
this  study  we  shall  discover  much  that  is  very  evil,  but  we 
shall  also  find  much  that  is  good  and  lovely.  An  exact  know- 
ledge of  each  particle  of  good  and  bad  will  enable  us  always 
to  see  the  true  state  of  our  souls ;  and  when  trials  and  tempta- 
tions beset  us,  show  us  where  to  fortify  ourselves,  when  to 
give  battle,  when  to  retreat,  or  when  to  surrender. 

What  is  the  study  of  ourselves  but  the  benefiting  of  our- 
selves, and  who  is  not  seeking,  in  his  own  way,  his  own  good 
or  benefit  ?  If  "  the  true  study  of  mankind  is  man,"  by  know- 
ing ourselves  we  shall  truly  know  the  rest,  for  we  are  all 
of  the  same  material,  only  differently  moulded  and  tempered 
by  circumstances. 

Would  you  fortify  your  heart  so  that  you  may  be  safe  from 
threatening  evils  ?  Then  know  the  way  by  knowing  yourself. 
Would  you  control  others?  Learn  first  to  control  yourself. 
Would  you  be  useful,  influential,  and  happy?  then  "Know  thy- 
self." How  ?  By  study,  application,  and  discipline.  To  gain 
strength,  seek  for  your  weakness  ; — to  teach  others,  be  taught ; 
learn  first  your  own  nature  —  look  into  your  own  mirror  be- 
fore you  hold  the  glass  to  the  face  of  another ;  and  if  in  doubt 
regarding  your  powers,  your  prejudices,  or  passions,  ask 
friends  and  even  enemies,  for  there  is  truth  in  the  sentiment 
of  the  Scottish  bard : 

"  Oh,  wad  some  power  the  giftie  gie  us 
To  see  ourseFs  as  ithers  see  us." 

"Know  thyself,"  thou  who  wouldst  be  truly  great  —  thou 
who  wouldst  know  thy  strength  and  thy  weakness.  "  Know 


172  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

thyself,"  thou  who  wouldst  smile  serenely  when  storms  and 
tempests  assail  thee  —  thou  who  wouldst  laugh  at  temptations 
which  would  destroy  thee.  "  Know  thyself,"  thou  who  wouldst 
be  wise,  for  this  is  the  beginning  and  end  of  wisdom  —  a  pre- 
cept of  God,  pointing  to  the  throne  of  Heaven,  and  bidding  us 
press  forward  and  upward  ! 


MUTATION. 


BY     A  .      E  .      GORDON. 

Lo!    across  the  heaving  surges 

Of  Time's  raging,  troubled  sea, 
Mix'd  with  sad  and  solemn  dirges, 

Onward  towards  Eternity 
Floats  Mutation,  with  its  changes 

To  the  fickle  things  of  Earth  — 
Friendship  severs,  love  estranges, 

Hushing  every  sound  of  mirth. 

Though  our  lives  are  bright  and  fairy 

As  a  merry  morn  of  May; 
Yet,  like  summer,  they  may  vary, 

And  our  gladness  flit  away; 
Though  the  beams  of  hope  are  brightest. 

And  the  future  seems  but  fair; 
Yet  what  now  alone  delightest 

May  be  changed  to  dark  despair. 

Sad  and  strange,  and  so  uncertain, 

Being  thus  the  course  of  time, 
Should  we  seek  to  raise  the  curtain 

Where  the  future  hours  chime? 
No  !  on  earth  while  yet  we  tarry, 

Let  us  live,  that  when  we  die, 
Angels  will  our  spirits  carry 

To  the  realms  of  bliss  on  high ! 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  173 


A  FRAGMENT. 


BY     JAMES     J.      BRENTON 


IT  was  a  beautiful  and  bright  Sabbath  morning  in  June ; 
the  dust  which  for  some  time  had  almost  blinded  and  choked 
the  traveller  on  the  turnpike,  had  been  laid  by  a  cool,  refresh- 
ing shower,  and  the  air,  loaded  with  perfumes  from  the  flow- 
ering fields  and  neighboring  gardens,  was  stirred  by  a  gentle 
breeze  that  gave  life  and  animation  to  all  around.  The  woods 
resounded  with  the  loud  notes  of  Nature's  sweetest  min- 
strels, as  they  chanted  their  wild  anthems  of  praise,  that 
another  day  had  come  to  bless  and  cheer  the  inhabitants  of 
Earth.  All  was  light  and  happiness  here  ;  but  all  was  dark- 
ness and  sorrow  in  the  house  whither  our  journey  was  di- 
rected. 

In  the  chequered  pathway  of  life  man  is  called  upon  to  wit- 
ness many  scenes  that  stir  the  feelings  to  their  very  centre  — 
when  deprived  of  friends  ripe  with  age,  whose  lives  have  been 
crowned  with  deeds  of  usefulness  and  honor,  the  loss  is  miti- 
gated by  the  reflection  that  it  is  only  the  ordinary  course  of 
nature ;  but  when  youth  and  beauty  are  cut  down  by  the  re- 
lentless hand  of  death,  like  some  young  tree  with  all  its  grace- 
ful foliage  around  it,  the  stroke  is  heavy  indeed.  Nothing  but 
a  firm  reliance  on  the  will  of  Providence  can  soothe  the  sor- 
rows of  the  surviving  friends  under  such  circumstances. 

A  sermon  was  to  be  preached  on  the  occasion  of  the  death 
of  one  who  had  been  a  dutiful  daughter,  a  beloved  sister,  a 
kind  mother  and  an  affectionate  wife.  Snatched  from  the 
busy  scenes  of  life  at  an  early  age,  still  there  were  comfort  and 
consolation  in  the  thought,  that 

"  Those  whom  God  loves  die  early  ;" 


174 

And  that  our  friend  was  one  of  those  who  had  chosen  that 
good  part  which  shall  not  be  taken  away,  from  her,*  and  had 
gone  to  reap  her  reward  in  a  better  and  never  ending  exist- 
ence in  the  invisible  world. 

Cradled  in  the  lap  of  luxury,  and  reared  among  the  refining 
influences  of  polished  manners,  she  retained  those  graces  only 
which  adorn  and  characterize  the  Christian ;  and  became  the 
centre  of  a  circle  which  gradually  widened  with  each  suc- 
ceeding year.  And  when  death  laid  his  icy  hand  upon  her, 
and  sorrowing  friends  surrounded  her  bedside  —  when  life's 
pale  taper  flickered  in  its  socket  she  alone  remained  calm — 
she  alone  was  happy.  Resting  but  a  moment,  before  entering 
upon  the  scenes  of  immortality,  she  comforted  her  friends  with 
the  assurance  that  "All  was  well :" 

O  mourn  not  thy  loss  —  why  should  she  delay 
In  a  life  full  of  grief,  and  a  world  full  of  sorrow, 

For  the  spirit  that  toils  'mid  the  cares  of  to-day, 
May  rest  from  all  labor  in  Heaven  to-morrow. 


O  mourn  not  the  loss  of  the  faithful  departed, 
O  heave  not  a  sigh  o'er  the  death-bearing  bier, 

So  brief  is  this  life  to  weak  mortals  imparted, 
If  a  Christian  seek  rest,  can  it  e'er  be  found  here  ? 

O  mourn  not  thy  loss.  The  spirit  in  Heaven 
Longs  not  for  the  joys  that  Earth  can  afford, 

In  the  words  of  our  Saviour  may  comfort  be  given: 
"Blessed  are  the  dead  who  die  in  the  Lord." 


The  sacred  services  of  the  day  reminded  us  of  our  earthly 
pilgrimage,  and  that  preparation  for  eternity  was  the  great 
business  of  life.  Never  shall  we  forget  the  soul-subduing  in- 
fluences that  seemed  to  quiet  the  sob  of  sorrow,  and  dry  the 
tear  of  affliction,  as  the  Messenger  of  Peace  proceeded  to 
demonstrate  the  necessity  of  our  having,  like  "  our  departed 
sister"  "our  loins  girded  about  and  our  lights  burning;"  so 
that  when  the  Lord  calls,  we  also  might  say,  "All  is  well"  It 
seemed  as  if  her  spirit,  by  some  mysterious  means,  was  pres- 

*  Luke  x.  42. 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  175 

ent,  mingling  with  the  spirits  of  the  bereaved,  in  heavenly 
communion,  and  whispering  in  accents  of  love,  the  comfort- 
ing words,  'c  Weep  not  for  me  —  for  All  is  well." 

In  a  quiet  and  romantic  spot  in  Greenwood  Cemetery  repose 
the  mortal  remains  of  *  *  *  *,  there  to  rest  until  called 
forth  at  the  resurrection  morn,  changed  and  transformed  into 
celestial  beauty — to  enjoy  eternal  and  ecstatic  bliss  in  the  pres- 
ence of  her  Redeemer. 


THE  DEATH-BED  OF  BEAUTY. 

BY   THE   LATE   J.    O.    ROCKWELL. 

'SHE  sleeps  in  beauty,  like  the  dying  rose 

By  the  warm  skies  and  winds  of  June  forsaken ; 
Or  like  the  sun,  when  dimtn'd  with  clouds  it  goes 

To  its  clear  ocean-bed,  by  light  winds  shaken  : 
Or  like  the  moon,  when  through  its  robes  of  snow 

It  smiles  with  angel  meekness — or  like  sorrow 
When  it  is  soothed  by  resignation's  glow, 

Or  like  herself, — she  will  be  dead  to-morrow. 

How  still  she  sleeps!     The  young  and  sinless  girl! 

And  the  faint  breath  upon  her  red  lips  trembles ! 
Waving,  almost  in  death,  the  raven  curl 

That  floats  around  her ;  and  she  most  resembles 
The  fall  of  night  upon  the  ocean  foam, 

Wherefrom  the  sun-light  hath  not  yet  departed; 
And  where  the  winds  are  faint.     She  stealeth  home, 

Unsullied  girl !  an  angel  broken-hearted  ! 

O,  bitter  world !  that  hadst  so  cold  an  eye 

To  look  upon  so  fair  a  type  of  heaven! 
She  could  not  dwell  beneath  a  winter  sky, 

And  her  heart-strings  were  frozen  here  and  riven. 
And  now  she  lies  in  ruins — look  and  weep ! 

How  lightly  leans  her  cheek  upon  the  pillow ! 
And  how  the  bloom  of  her  fair  face  doth  keep 

Changed  like  a  stricken  dolphin  on  the  billow. 


176  THE    PRINTER'S   BOOK. 


THE  TWO  CARPENTERS. 


BY     H.     C.     JOHNSON. 


CHAPTER     I. 

THE  thriving  and  populous  village  of  Williamsburgh  did 
not  always  re-echo  to  the  puff  of  steam-propelled  ma- 
chinery, nor  were  her  thoroughfares  erst  familiar  to  the  din 
of  the  whirling  cab  or  heavy  omnibus.  Within  the  mem- 
ory of  our  young  men,  even,  the  McKibbon  property,  Judge 
Skillman's,  and  Judge  Conselyea's  broad  lands  were  used  for 
pasture  ground ;  when  the  Schols'  estate  was  undisturbed  by 
the  presence  of  a  street,  its  surface  wa-s  annually  smoothed  by 
the  glittering  scythe.  The  Boerums  and  Richardsons  seldom 
consulted  on  the  price  of  lots  then,  but  discussed,  over  a  social 
glass  of  home-made,  the  product  of  their  farms.  It  was  the 
golden  age  of  the  "  Nation" — the  Knickerbocker  dynasty  of 
our  archives.  They  were  good  old  times,  too,  but  the  spirits 
that  made  them  such  are  fading  away  before  this  age  of 
progress.  Occasionally,  like  a  shadowy  visitant  from  another 
world,  one  is  observed,  forgetful  of  the  times  he  has  been 
spared  to  see,  elbowing  his  way,  with  borrowed  grace,  along 
our  jostling  streets.  His  antique  garb  renders  him  the  sport 
of  the  school-boy — the  wonder  of  the  crowd.  Strange  objects 
greet  his  eyes ;  unnatural  sounds  grate  upon  his  ear ;  he  turns 
from  the  sea  of  unfamiliar  faces  ;  and  as  he  crosses  the  street, 
the  sharp  crack  of  the  omnibus  whip  warns  him  to  accelerate 
his  feeble  steps  ; — "he  is  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land."  Tow- 
ering steeples,  long  rows  of  elegant  houses,  with  the  hurry 
and  bustle  of  a  village  fast  merging  into  a  city,  now  occupy 
the  home,  the  gardens,  and  the  pasture-grounds  of  the  Knick- 
erbockers of  Williamsburgh. 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  177 

At  the  close  of  a  pleasant  afternoon  in  183-,  two  young 
men  were  busily  plying  their  calling  in  a  snug  little  carpenter- 
shop,  the  site  of  which  is  now  occupied  by  a  stately  private 
mansion.  They  were  earnestly  discussing  the  merits  of  a 
misunderstanding  into  which  one  of  them  had  fallen  with  their 
employer,  Mr.  Davenport. 

Charles  Carson,  *the  elder  of  the  two  young  men,  was  the 
son  of  a  poor  farmer,  and  had  been  favored  with  but  limited 
opportunities  for  improvement.  Blest  with  a  warm-hearted 
and  Christian  mother,  he  had  early  been  taught  that  virtue  and 
charity  should  ever  constitute  the  prominent  characteristics  of 
a  young  man,  and  that  no  man  would  be  truly  great  whose 
character  failed  to  embody  both.  Of  a  naturally  warm  tem- 
perament and  quick  perceptions,  he  had  often  been  made 
keenly  susceptible  of  his  want  of  education.  In  the  early 
period  of  his  apprenticeship,  his  rising  with  the  sun  was 
mainly  prompted  by  a  laudable  ambition  to  excel  in  his  call- 
ing. This  gradually  yielded  precedence  to  a  higher  aim —  a 
longing  after  mental  strength.  His  leisure  moments  were  now 
wholly  devoted  to  carefully  selected  books.  The  hours  usually 
passed  by  boys  of  his  age  in  frivolous  pastimes,  were  by  him 
studiously  employed.  At  the  commencement  of  our  story,  two 
unexpired  years  of  his  apprenticeship  only  remained.  His 
uniform  good  conduct  had  won  for  him  the  title  of  the  "  studi- 
ous carpenter."  Every  confidence  was  reposed  in  him  by 
his  employer,  and  the  patrons  of  Mr.  Davenport  frequently 
remained  longer  at  the  shop  than  they  would,  had  Charles 
been  absent.  His  efforts  at  advancement  had  won  the  sym- 
pathy and  esteem  of  men,  whose  countenance  and  approba- 
tion it  was  better  than  riches  to  merit.  And  yet  Charles, 
least  of  all,  realized  the  advance  he  was  making,  his  improve- 
ment had  been  so  gradual  and  even. 

Sydney  Allen,  his  shop-mate,  was  in  nearly  every  particular, 
his  antipodes.  Reared  within  the  poisonous  suburbs  of  a  great 
city,  little  parental  restraint  had  ever  been  exercised  to  curb 
the  headlong  passions  of  his  turbulent  mind.  When  sent  to 
school,  if  he  saw  fit,  he  would  obey ;  if  not,  he  sought  the 
company  of  boys  whose  lawless  conduct  was  a  painful  evi- 
dence of  the  want  of  a  good  example  at  home.  The  trade 


178 

he  was  now  apprenticed  to  learn,  was  the  third  attempt  his 
parents  had  made  to  establish  him  in  something  permanent. 
It  was  ever  his  misfortune  to  be  in  the  employ  of  a  morose, 
tyrannical  master;  the  work  was  too  laborious,  or  some 
equally  frivolous  pretext,  which  his  credulous  parents  never 
took  the  trouble  to  investigate,  was  sure  to  return  Sydney 
Allen  home  at  the  expiration  of  a  few  weeks.  He  had  now 
passed  his  seventeenth  summer.  In  stature  a  man  ;  in  habits 
— but  we  will  not  anticipate  what  will  reveal  itself  all  too 
soon.  His  present  employer  had  held  his  acquaintance  longer 
than  either  of  his  previous  ones.  This  was  mainly  attribu- 
table to  the  influence  which  the  equable  temper  and  steady 
industry  of  Charles  had  imperceptibly  gained  over  him,  and 
he  conceded  to  the  claims  of  a  good  example,  what  compul- 
sion had  essayed  in  vain  to  produce  —  obedience. 

Charles  strenuously  urged  a  compromise  with  Mr.  Daven- 
port, but  Sydney,  with  a  sullen  air,  resisted  all  attempts  at  a 
reconciliation.  As  if  in  anticipation  of  evil,  the  former  pressed 
the  matter  with  some  warmth  ;  urging,  from  his  own  experi- 
ence, that  crossings  and  vexations  must  be  borne  in  learning  a 
trade.  "  And,  finally,"  said  he,  "  we  are  both  young,  and 
have  much  to  learn  ;  and  it  appears  to  me  the  part  of  com- 
mon discretion  to  secure  the  advantages  within  our  reach.  To 
us  this  is  the  *  day  of  small  things :'  Williamsburgh  is  but  in 
its  infancy ;  from  its  proximity  to  New-York,  it  must  grow 
with  her  growth ;  let  us  grow  up  with  her ;  our  prospects 
will  brighten  with  her  advancement;  if  we  miss  this  oppor- 
tunity another  may  never  occur." 

But  all  to  no  purpose.  The  self-will  of  Sydney  could  ill 
brook  reproof  from  a  stranger,  and  once  more  he  was  afloat 
upon  the  tide  of  chance,  with  no  definite  idea  of  his  future 
purpose  of  life.  After  lounging  about  the  gathering  corners 
of  his  idle  associates  until  tired  of  the  monotony,  he  ventured 
into  a  ship-yard,  and  sought  for  employment. 

Unfortunately  for  him,  the  list  of  trades  does  not  furnish  one 
more  laborious  than  that  of  the  hard-working  ship-carpenter. 
Beneath  the  sweltering  sun  of  Summer,  and  exposed  to  the 
blistering  cold  of  Winter,  the  hardy  mechanic  toils  on.  Huge 
spars  are  suspended  on  their  Herculean  shoulders,  which  it 


179 

would  appear  little  short  of  temerity  to  molest.  Their  inge- 
nious hands  form  the  cradles,  in  which  are  rocked  the  com- 
merce and  wealth  of  the  wide  world.  How  often  have  the 
hopes,  the  fears,  the  lives,  and  the  happiness  of  hundreds,  aye, 
thousands,  hung  suspended  on  the  faithful  blows,  the  stalwart 
arms,  and  the  unrewarded  precaution  of  the  noble-hearted 
ship-carpenter. 

Sydney  remained  in  the  ship-yard  until  night-fall,  but  he 
heartily  resolved  not  to  be  caught  there  again; — it  was  too 
much  like  work.  Several  abortive  attempts  were  now  made 
by  his  parents  and  friends  to  secure  a  situation  for  him,  but  with 
the  failure  of  each  effort,  his  disposition  to  industry  weakened. 
Venturing  upon  a  retrospection  of  his  indefinite  mode  of 
life,  remorse  made  him  uneasy,  and  he  resolved  on  an  inter- 
view with  : his  exemplary  friend,  the  "studious  carpenter." 
On  his  way  to  the  boat,  he  was  accosted  by  an  acquaintance, 
who  persuaded  him  to  forego  the  visit.  Once  in  the  power 
of  the  dissolute  and  abandoned,  he  tamely  yielded  to  passions 
he  had  not  the  moral  courage  to  control. 


"  The   ocean  lashed  to   fury  loud, 
Its  high  waves  mingling  with  the  cloud, 
Its   peaceful,  sweet   serenity  — 
To   Passion's   dark  and  waveless   sea!" 


At  the  early  age  of  twenty-one,  Sydney  Allen  had  lost 
nearly  every  redeeming  feature  of  his  character.  The  fine 
tone  of  moral  feeling,  which  once  assumed  the  shape  of  a 
regard  for  virtue  for  the  good  its  possession  yields,  daily 
nurtured  by  the  precepts  and  examples  of  Charles  Carson, 
had  fanned  the  spark  of  self-respect  into  a  flame,  and  he 
had  begun  to  view  the  object  of  his  being  as  elevated  to  that 
of  men,  when  the  redeeming  influence  was  rudely  sev- 
ered by  his  own  ruthless  hand.  He  was  again  left  to  his 
worst  enemy  —  his  passions.  Hurried  on  by  the  dangerous 
excitements  of  a  constitutional  ardor,  he  pursued  a  course  of 
unbridled  debauchery  and  licentiousness.  His  parents  beheld 


180 


with  anguish  the  blight  of  hopes,  till  now  fondly  cherished. 
They  besought  him  to  reform,  but 

"  Vice   had  bound  him  in  her  wizard   spell 
And  Ruin  followed." 

He  had  gone  too  far  to  recede ;  the  moral  stamina  of  the 
heart  had  been  crushed ;  the  rein  lay  loose  on  Passion's  neck, 
and  wildly,  madly,  she  hurried  him  onward.  Daily  in  the  so- 
ciety of  an  abandoned  horde  of  gamblers,  with  their  over- 
tures he  at  length  closed.  It  was  all  they  sought,  and  loading 
his  person  with  their  spurious  gold,  instant  preparation  was 
made  for  a  Western  tour. 

Thus,  step  by  step,  he  sank  to  be  the  sworn  confederate 
of  a  loathsome  set  of  outcasts,  and  a  participant  in  all  their 
unwritten  crimes,  and  their  execrable  accompaniments.  While 
he  revelled  in  dissipation  by  day,  and  steeped  his  heart  in 
crime  by  night,  like  Damocles  at  the  fearful  banquet,  above 
him,  suspended  by  a  single  hair,  hung  the  glittering  sword 
of  justice. 


CHAPTER     II. 

In  the  meantime,  Charles  Carson,  in  the  simplicity  of  unam- 
bitious merit  was  quietly  pursuing  the  "  even  tenor  of  his 
way."  The  circle  of  his  influence,  like  his  knowledge,  had 
been  widening  and  deepening  with  each  revolving  year.  He 
had  now  been  for  twelve  months  his  own  master,  and  the  most 
interesting  period  of  his  life  was  drawing  nigh.  That  the 
reader  may  know  the  secret  I  will  venture  to  intrust  him  with 
the  key- 
It  was  at  the  close  of  a  long,  sultry  day  in  June,  that  a 
lady  and  gentleman  took  their  way  down  First  street  towards 
"  The  Cottage."  In  the  upright  carriage  and  manly  air  of  the 
gentleman,  the  reader  will  recognize  Charles.  On  his  arm  con- 
fidingly leaned  a  lady,  her  cheek  just  tinged  by  its  eighteenth 
summer,  whose  happy  satisfaction  of  countenance  plainly 
indicated  she  was  in  the  company  of  him  whose  deep  tones 
first  awoke  her  soul  to  the  impassioned  language  of  love. 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  181 

Their  conversation  was  carried  on  in  a  low  but  earnest  key, 
Of  its  purport  we  may  judge  by  the  words  of  Charles. 

"  Ellen,  dear,  I  am  unused  to  coin  words  of  love  for  woman's 
ear,  and  yet  I  feel  no  desire  to  restrain  the  impulse  that  prompts 
me  to  express  in  words,  what  my  actions  must  have  often  be- 
trayed in  our  evening  rambles.  We  are  told  that  the  voyage 
of  life,  like  yon  flowing  river,  has  its  shoals  and  quicksands ; 
but  would  you  fear  to  launch  upon  the  swelling  bosom  of  its 
waters  with  one  whose  bright  cynosure  you  have  been  for 
years?" 

"  Your  happiness  has  ever  been  near  my  heart,  Charles,'' 
replied  the  blushing  Ellen.  , 

"  Dare  you  then  sacrifice  your  prospects  of  a  wealthy 
alliance,  and  rest  your  future  happiness  with  the  humble 
carpenter  ?" 

"  I  have  no  higher  ambition,"  echoed  the  confiding  maiden, 
while  her  willing  hand  nestled  in  his. 

Life  seemed  all  golden  sunshine  to  Charles  and  Ellen,  as 
they  seated  themselves  on  the  rustic  bench  under  the  dew- 
laden  trees  of  "  The  Cottage,"  that  evening.  The  sun  had 
set  in  unclouded  beauty ;  its  fading  splendor  gilding  spire  and 
dome,  the  star-studded  brow  of  night,  and  the  mighty  river 
as  it  rolled  on  in  its  majesty  to  the  sea,  laving  the  bristling 
forest  of  shipping  resting  quietly  in  its  bosom. 

But  "  The  Cottage"  is  no  longer  the  lover's  resort ;  its 
carpet  of  green,  its  venerable  locusts,  its  bending  willows 
are  fast  disappearing  before  the  merciless  hand  of  improve- 
ment ;  and  even  as  I  write,  the  "  deeds"  are  drawn,  closing 
up  forever,  the  lovely  prospects,  so  often  enjoyed  under  the 
welcome  shade  of  the  dark  old  trees  of  "  The  Cottage." 

CHAPTER     III. 

"  Tis  midnight  reigns  around  — 
Midnight,  when  crime  and  murder  quit  their  lair; 
Their  footsteps,  like  their  conscience  —  void  of  sound ; 
Their  mission,  blood  —  their  recompense,  despair!" 

ON  a  dismal  evening  in  November,  1 840,  five  as  villanous 


182 

countenances  as  ever  lust,  debauchery,  crime,  and  bloodshed 
stamped  with  their  impress,  were  closely  huddled  together  in 
the  dark  corner  of  a  loathsome  den  in  Cross-street,  New- 
York.  They  were  the  shattered  wrecks  of  what  once  consti- 
tuted men.  No  love  of  virtue,  no  reverence  for  God,  no 
thought  of  reform  met  a  response  in  a  single  bosom  there. 
Inured  to  crime,  their  thoughts  dwelt  on  deeds  of  horror :  and 
even  as  they  sat,  v  ictims  of  vice  and  its  concomitant  curses, 
plans  of  violence  were  busy  with  their  thought.  The  vigi- 
lance of  an  Argus-eyed  police,  kept  them  in  hourly  dread  ; 
and  fearfully  venturing  forth  by  day,  like  noiseless  shadows 
they  stole  along  the  streets  while  others  slept.  Fearfully  had 
their  numbers  been  thinned.  The  gallows  had  claimed  two. 
Violence  hurried  three  others  from  amongst  them,  and  only 
the  night  previous,  they  had  been  recognized  as  members  of 
the  dreaded  Allen's  gang.  At  length  their  leader  (for  such  he 
assumed  to  be)  a  second  Abellino,  whose  scarred  and  bloated 
visage  bespoke  a  demon,  with  a  fearful  oath  decided  that 
a  descent  upon  the  suburbs  was  at  present  their  only  resource. 
It  was  acceded  to. 

At  a  late  hour  a  skiff  might  have  been  seen  stealthily  ap- 
proaching the  Williamsburgh  shore.  It  was  past  the  hour  of 
midnight  when  they  effected  a  landing;  and  having  no  time  to 
lose,  they  secured  their  boat  at  the  foot  of  South  Fifth  street, 
and  scattered  through  the  village  with  an  injunction  to  be  back 
in  one  hour.  One  hour  .to  be  devoted  to  preconcerted  crime. 
At  the  expiration  of  that  time,  all  save  their  chief  had  re- 
turned. Presently,  he  appeared,  staggering  under  a  rich  load 
of  plate,  jewelry,  and  clothing.  The  boat  lay  close  under  a 
pile  of  old  timber,  and  tossing  the  valuable  bundle  into  it,  he 
essayed  to  step  from  the  timber  into  the  boat,  when  his  foot 
slipped,  and  he  fell  heavily  backward,  his  form  partly  striking 
the  gunwale  of  the  boat,  his  head  coming  in  contact  with  the 
iron  thole  pins.  The  boat  half  filled  as  she  careened  to  the 
shock,  and  the  midnight  robber  —  Sydney  Allen  —  sunk  be- 
neath the  waves,  made  crimson  from  the  fearful  fracture  in 
his  head.  He  rose  to  the  surface,  but  the  boat,  caught  in 
the  strong  current  of  the  tide,  which  runs  here  with  fearful 
rapidity,  was  fast  leaving  the  spot.  He  implored  assistance 


THE   PRINTER'S    BOOK.  183 

of  his  fellows  —  he  could  not  swim.  He  shrieked,  he  howled, 
he  clutched  the  air  in  his  phrensy — he  sunk  in  the  gurgling 
water  !  When  the  body  rose  to  the  surface  again,  it  was  too 
horrid  a  spectacle  to  look  upon  !  With  his  bloodshot  eyes 
protruding  from  their  sockets,  his  head  all  matted  and  gory, 
his  convulsively  extended  hands,  wildly  thrashing  the  dark 
waves  in  their  impotent  might !  Oh  ! 

"  If  there  are  tears  in  heaven,  angels   might  weep 
At  such  a  sight  as  this!" 

Sydney  Allen  sunk  beneath  the  eddying  whirl  of  the  tide 
his  body  went  to  feed  the  fishes  of  the  gulf —  his  disembodied 
spirit  passed  to  that  world  whose  dread  realities  he  disre- 
garded. 

Who  shall  attempt  to  portray  the  sorrow,  the  misery,  the 
crime,  the  multiform  horrors,  the  self-reproach,  the  endless 
array  of  evil  flowing  from  the  execrable  practice  of  gambling  ! 
It  is  Pandora's  box  robbed  of  its  redeeming  feature.  It  trans- 
forms the  kind  husband  into  a  soulless  brute  ;  it  robs  the 
cheek  of  health  ;  the  purse  of  its  contents  ;  the  soul  of  virtue  ; 
time  of  contentment ;  eternity  of  bliss.  Young  man  !  as  you 
would  shun  unmitigated  remorse,  beware  of  the  GAMING  TA- 
BLE. 


The  seasons  in  their  "  annual  round,"  leave  traces  of  their 
footsteps,  and  time,  in  its  flight,  had  traced  with  his  finger  the 
brow  and  heart  of  Ellen  and  Charles*  Sorrow  had  been  in 
their  midst.  Charles  Carson  had  been  called  to  perform  the 
last  rites  of  affection  to  his  tried  friend — his  second  father  — 
Mr.  Davenport.  His  manly  sorrow,  his  tenderness  towards  the 
bereaved  family,  partook  of  a  sacredness  hushing  to  silence 
the  whisper  of  the  careless,  and  winning  for  him  encomiums 
the  proud  might  envy.  His  sorrow  was  deep  and  heartfelt, 
and  well  it  might  be,  for  Ellen  Davenport  was  his  wife. 

Reader,  saunter  with  me  up  Grand  street  to  Fourth,  turn- 
ing down  which,  we  will  take  a  stroll  on  the  North  side  of  the 
village.  Already  have  we  passed  where  Charles  Carson  may 


184 


be  seen  daily  at  his  bench.  We  are  now  in  the  vicinity  of  a 
collection  of  neat  dwellings.  Let  us  venture  to  intrude  upon 
the  courtesy  of  this  one  on  our  right.  The  mistress  is  at 
home  ;  her  face  is  not  unfamiliar.  What  a  tidy  air  every 
thing  wears.  Shall  we  enter  the  parlor — here  simplicity  and 
taste  strive  for  the  mastery.  The  most  prominent  feature  in 
the  room  is  a  well-stocked  library.  Paintings  and  mezzotint 
engravings,  of  choice  selection,  adorn  the  walls.  Over  the 
mantel  ornaments  is  suspended  a  plain  rosewood  frame,  en- 
closing a  certificate  of  membership  of  an  order  who  "  drink  no 
wine  !"  The  door  opens,  that  friendly  grasp,  how  it  sends  the 
warm  blood  through  our  veins  !  We  cannot  be  mistaken,  we 
have  been  taking  a  cursory  view  of  the  residence  of  Charles 
Carson  and  Ellen  Davenport.  The  table  is  spread,  and  while 
we  obey  the  friendly  request  to  partake  of  their  hospitality, 
listen  to  the  language  of  the  husband  : 

"  O  Thou,  whose  presence  lightest  up  Eternity — Thou 
who  art  the  poor  man's  solace,  the  rich  man's  comfort,  lead 
our  hearts  to  be  as  charitable  to  others  as  Thy  fatherly  hand 
has  been  bountiful  in  spreading  this  our  humble  board." 

Shall  we  leave  them  here?  Where  could  we  leave  them 
so  well  ?  Blest  with  the  full  fruition  of  every  earthly  good, 
looking  up  through  the  beautiful  economy  of  nature  to  Him,  in 
the  hollow  of  whose  hand, 

"  Vast  worlds  hang   trembling." 


VERSES, 

WRITTEN     IN     AN    ALBUM. 

Long  may  the  album  of  the  songster  speak 
Whose  ripened  age  his  tender  tone  belies  ; 

Who,  finding  thee  so  candid,  fair  and  good, 
Was  for  a  moment  duped  by  thy  bright  eyes. 

Through  love  —  ah,  no !    his  loving  days  are  o'er  — 
But  through  thy  flattering  notice  led  astray, 

He  deemed  —  fond  fool !  —  that  boauty's  passing  smile 
Beaming  on  him  was  glory's  lasting  ray. 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  185 

FRANKLIN: 

HIS   GENIUS,   LIFE,   AND   CHARACTER.* 

BY   JOHN   L.    JEWETT. 


IT  is  permitted  to  every  human  being,  at  some  early  stage 
of  his  existence,  to  enjoy  a  season  of  comparative  purity  and 
innocence, — a  season  of  unselfish  and  devout  aspiration  to  live 
in  harmony  with  every  kindred  intelligence.  From  this,  as 
from  a  landmark,  he  takes  as  it  were  his  departure,  when 
entering,  freighted  with  its  responsibilities,  upon  the  perilous 
voyage  of  life.  And  as  the  mariner,  becalmed  in  tropical 
seas,  fevered  and  exhausted  with  vertical  heats,  yearns  and 
sighs  for  his  native  land,  until  his  parting  glimpses  of  its  green 
fields  and  meadows  rise  in  vision  before  him ;  so  also  does  the 
voyager  upon  the  sea  of  life,  weary  and  soul-sick  with  its 
heartless  strifes  and  maddening  passions,  recur  to  his  sad 
farewell  of  the  native  home  of  his  mind, — to  its  season  of 
peace  and  purity, — until  it  rises  in  recollection  like  the  last  rays 
of  a  beautiful  sunset — the  golden  age  of  his  early  unclouded 
years.  Experience  unfortunately  teaches  us,  that  to  many 
individuals  their  residence  in  this  Eden  of  the  mind  must  be 
briefer  than  a  summer's  morning.  Still,  we  have  reason  to 
believe  that  no  one  is  wholly  destitute  of  some  cherished 
remembrance,  some  oasis  in  the  desert  of  his  memory,  from 
which  an  influence  ever  and  anon  steals  into  the  mind,  like 
breezes  blown  from  the  spice-islands  of  youth  and  hope.  Sad 
indeed  is  it  for  us,  when  no  voice  is  echoed  from  the  repose 


*  An  Oration  delivered  before  the  New-York  Typographical  Society,  on 
the  occasion  of  the  Birthday  of  Franklin,  at  the  Printers'   Festival,  held 
January  17,  1849.     Published  by  order  of  the  Society. 
24 


186  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

of  bygone  years, — when  even  memory  fails  to  renew  the 
golden  age  of  our  youth ;  for  around  it  cluster  all  our  hopes 
of  peace.  It  is  the  nucleus  about  which  are  gathered,  as 
by  a  celestial  magnetism,  all  our  desires  for  true  moral  and 
spiritual  advancement, — all  our  aspirations  worthily  to  fulfil 
the  high  ends  of  our  being. 

There  is  something  analogous  to  this  individual  experience 
in  the  history  of  Nations  and  States — of  Societies  and  Asso- 
ciations ;  all  have  their  golden  age.  Whatever  opinions  may 
be  formed  of  what  are  generally  considered  the  fabulous  ages 
of  antiquity,  it  is  historically  true  that  our  own  country  at 
least,  and  many  of  the  countries  of  modern  Europe,  have  had 
their  golden  age. 

Who  can  read  the  history  of  good  King  Alfred  of  Eng- 
land, and  contemplate  his  simple  uprightness  of  heart,  and  his 
manly  virtues,  and  not  feel  that  his  was  the  golden  age  of  his 
country?  And  who  does  not  see  that  the  memory  of  his 
virtues  has  been  the  lamp  that  in  every  age  has  guided  the 
feet  of  the  noblest  of  our  English  ancestors, — that  his  valiant 
deeds  have  been  the  torch  that  has  never  ceased  to  kindle  the 
flame  of  patriotism  in  their  breasts  ? 

France,  too,  had  her  golden  age  in  the  reign  of  St.  Louis, 
who  administered  justice  to  his  people  in  person,  reclining 
against  an  oak  in  the  forest  of  Vincennes ;  and  in  the  sainted 
Maid  of  Orleans,  who  to  peerless  beauty,  and  all  womanly 
virtues,  united  martial  enthusiasm  and  prowess  that  rescued 
her  country  for  ever  from  the  yoke  of  the  invader,  and  drove 
mailed  knights  and  haughty  captains  in  terror  and  disgrace 
from  her  soil.  At  the  bare  mention  of  these  names,  every 
true-hearted  Frenchman  feels  that  the  highest  and  holiest 
sentiments  of  his  nature  are  summoned  to  go  forth  into 
action. 

Need  we  say  that  the  serene  majesty  encircling  like  a 
halo  of  light  the  head  of  our  WASHINGTON,  will  for  ever 
stamp  the  era  of  his  life  as  the  golden  age  of  our  own  beloved 
country  ?  Not  indeed  the  age  of  her  outward  success  and 
prosperity — not  her  age  of  gold — for  she  was  then  in  her  hour 
of  dark  trial  and  deadly  conflict — but  the  age  when  were 
sown  those  genuine  seeds  of  public  and  private  virtue  that 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  187 

gave  promise  of  so  golden  a  harvest.  How  glorious  a  legacy 
to  the  youth  of  America  is  the  history  of  his  unequalled 
patriotism  and  devotion — his  faith,  and  firmness,  and  self- 
sacrifice,  in  the  thickest  night  of  his  country's  despondency ; 
his  own  gallant  achievements,  and  his  unfeigned  joy  at  the 
achievements  of  others ;  his  freedom  from  all  vulgar  ambition, 
and  the  spotless  purity  of  his  unostentatious  life !  Who  can 
tell,  amid  the  degeneracy  into  which  we  have  undoubtedly 
fallen,  and  to  which  we  cannot  wholly  shut  our  eyes, — who 
can  tell  the  amount  of  vaulting  ambition  that  has  been  nipped 
in  the  bud,  the  corruption  that  has  blushed  to  see  the  fair 
face  of  day,  in  consequence  of  the  severe  rebuke,  silently  but 
effectually  administered  to  every  unhallowed  purpose  by  the 
memory  alone  of  the  Father  of  his  country  ?  Can  we  think 
of  him,  and  not  feel  that  his  virtues  possess  a  creative  power, 
a  fructifying  life,  that  will  cause  them  to  spring  up  anew,  and 
be  re-embodied  again  and  again,  in  every  succeeding  age  ? 

Societies,  associations,  and  every  body  of  men  organized 
for  the  attainment  of  a  specific  purpose,  or  for  the  perform- 
ance of  an  important  function  in  the  community — these  too, 
as  well  as  individuals  and  states,  have  a  golden  age  in  their 
history.  It  will  of  course  be  seen  that  outward  prosperity, 
pecuniary  success,  or  even  the  apparent  attainment  of  the 
ends  for  which  men  associate,  are  not  necessarily  included  in 
our  idea  of  a  golden  age.  The  annals  of  every  organized 
society  or  fraternity  will  furnish  abundant  evidence  of  the 
fact  we  aim  to  elucidate.  Each  and  all  of  them  look  back  to 
some  period  in  their  history,  when  the  ends  and  objects  of  the 
institution,  its  capabilities  for  beneficent  action,  the  purposes 
it  aimed  to  accomplish,  the  importance  of  the  use  it  designed 
to  perform,  were  pre-eminently  well  understood,  and  held  in 
their  genuine  simplicity.  Each  and  all  of  them  refer  to 
some  individual  whose  intellectual  endowments,  whose  moral 
worth  and  integrity,  whose  devotion  to  the  true  ends  of  the 
institution,  entitle  him  to  be  held  in  grateful  remembrance 
by  his  successors — some  one  whose  example  is  constantly  held 
up  to  incite  to  praiseworthy  action. 

It  is  in  this  spirit,  and  for  this  purpose,  that  we  have  met 
this  evening  to  do  honour  to  the  BIRTHDAY  OF  FRANKLIN. 


188  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

We  are  assembled  to  burn  no  unhallowed  incense  at  any  shrine 
— to  bow  in  servile  worship  of  no  mere  man  like  ourselves. 
But  we  have  met  to  refresh  our  minds  with  a  recollection  of 
the  wise  maxims  and  virtuous  deeds  of  a  philosopher  and 
a  sage;  we  would  quicken  ourselves  to  renewed  exertions 
in  the  path  of  duty,  by  recalling  the  noble  example  of  one 
endeared  to  us  by  the  ties  of  a  common  profession,  by  and 
through  which  we  proffer  a  claim  which  he  himself  would 
not  have  shamed  to  acknowledge. 

We  seek  not  to  monopolize  the  glory  of  Franklin's  name ; 
we  would  indulge  no  spirit  of  exclusiveness  in  relation  to  one 
who  was  an  honour'not  only  to  his  profession  and  his  country, 
but  to  the  human  race  and  the  world.  At  the  same  time,  we 
claim  as  legitimately  ours,  all  the  benefit  we  may  be  able  to 
derive  from  his  example ;  we  claim  as  ours  every  inference  in 
favour  of  the  capabilities  of  our  profession,  and  of  the  melio- 
rating influence  of  its  associations  upon  the  intellectual  and 
moral  character,  which  may  fairly  be  drawn  from  his  great 
attainments  and  his  blameless  life. 

Franklin  enjoyed  among  his  early  contemporaries  the 
highest  reputation  as  a  workman ;  his  skill  and  industry 
placed  him  in  the  foremost  rank  of  practical  printers.  By 
the  diligent  and  faithful  exercise  of  our  art,  he  attained  a 
competence  of  this  world's  goods,  and  thus  laid  the  foundation 
of  his  great  subsequent  usefulness.  The  daily  and  continued 
exercise  of  his  profession,  as  a  means  of  subsistence,  was 
made  compatible  by  him  with  the  attainment  of  great  and 
varied  knowledge,  which  fitted  him  for  the  highest  stations  in 
the  gift  of  a  grateful  country.  His  purity  of  life,  and  fidelity 
in  the  discharge  of  every  trust  reposed  in  him  ;  his  unwearied 
activity,  and  the  consecration  of  all  his  powers  and  acquire- 
ments for  the  good  of  his  fellow-men ;  his  moral  and  intellectual 
greatness,  conceded  by  every  civilized  nation  in  the  world, 
elevate  him  far  above  every  other  name  in  the  annals  of 
printing.  In  view  of  these  facts,  and  in  view  of  the  inesti- 
mable value  to  the  members  of  our  profession  of  so  high  an 
example — an  example  which  can  never  cease  to  act  as  an 
incentive  to  every  virtuous  impulse — we  claim  the  age  of 
Franklin  as  the  golden  age  of  our  art.  Not  that  printing,  in 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  189 

his  day,  reached  perfection,  or  that  it  received  from  him  or 
his  contemporaries  any  striking  improvements ;  not  that  the 
practice  of  our  profession  was  then  more  lucrative  or  respect- 
able than  it  had  previously  been.  Not  for  these  reasons  do 
we  recur  with  pleasure  and  pride  to  the  time  when  Franklin 
was  one  of  our  number — identified  with  us  by  one  of  the  most 
intimate  of  social  relations ;  not  for  this  do  we  contemplate 
his  life  as  forming  an  era  in  our  art.  Far  other  and  higher 
reasons  have  influenced  us  to  claim  for  it  this  pre-eminence. 
It  is  because  his  life  was  a  living,  practical,  and  ever-enduring 
demonstration,  of  the  moral,  intellectual,  and  social  eminence 
that  may  be  attained  in  our  profession,  by  a  faithful  perform- 
ance of  its  duties,  by  a  diligent  improvement  of  its  oppor- 
tunities, by  an  unrepining  submission  to  its  privations.  It  is 
because  he  has  proved  to  us  what  can  be  made  of  our  lot  in 
life;  because  he  has  shown  that  we  have* no  occasion  for 
unmanly  regrets  that  we  do  not  inherit  the  advantages  of 
fortune  or  station, — no  cause  of  complaint  that  our  youth  was 
not  passed  in  academic  bowers. 

True  it  is — a  truth  we  do  well  to  remember — that  we  can- 
not all  be  Franklins.  Though  he  was  mainly  indebted  for  his 
eminence  to  his  persevering  industry,  his  strong  control  of  his 
passions,  and  his  obedience  to  conscience,  yet  it  cannot  be 
denied  that  he  was  endowed  by  his  Creator  with  rare  gifts  of 
intellect.  These  it  was  that  fitted  him  to  fill  a  peculiar  place 
— to  perform  an  allotted  task  specially  his  own.  We  are  not 
all  called  to  fill  a  like  place,  or  to  perform  a  similar  task. 
Still,  his  example,  on  that  account,  is  not  the  less  valuable  to 
us — not  a  whit  the  less  available.  We  learn  by  it  that  a 
resolute  and  uncomplaining  performance  of  duty,  whatever 
our  condition  in  life — the  desire  and  the  effort  to  be  useful  to 
our  fellow-men,  in  the  humblest  as  well  as  in  the  highest 
relations — is  the  infallible  method  of  developing  our  highest 
capabilities — the  only  sure  road  to  that  peace  and  repose  we 
all  so  earnestly  seek.  This  was  the  lamp  by  which  Franklin's 
feet  were  guided, — the  compass  by  which  his  bark  was  faith- 
fully steered.  He  did  indeed  obtain  wealth  and  station — and 
these  are  things  not  to  be  despised ;  he  received  the  approba- 
tion and  applause  of  the  wise  and  the  good — and  these  he  by 


190  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

no  means  undervalued.  But  his  happiness  from  this  source 
can  no  more  compare  with  the  serene  repose  and  joy  that 
crowned  his  days,  and  supported  him  under  every  trial  and 
vicissitude — arising  from  the  consciousness  that  he  had  devoted 
all  his  powers  to  their  best  and  highest  use — than  the  transient 
flash  of  a  meteor  can  compare  with  the  steady  light  and 
warmth  of  the  noonday  sun. 

Franklin's  history,  as  written  by  himself — that  inimitable 
piece  of  autobiography — is  familiar  to  us  all ;  and  though  no 
story  of  a  life  ever  lost  less  of  its  interest  by  being  repeated, 
yet  a  selection  of  incidents  illustrative  of  his  character,  or 
suggestive  of  reflections  which  may  be  used  for  our  own 
advantage,  may  be  most  appropriate  to  this  occasion. 

One  of  the  striking  points  in  the  life  of  Franklin,  is  the  very 
early  and  almost  premature  development  of  his  character. 
The  loftiness,  ajjd  yet  the  soberness  of  his  aspirations — the 
manliness,  and  yet  the  feasibility  of  the  ends  he  proposed  to 
himself,  must  strike  every  reader  of  his  memoirs.  Thus, 
shortly  after  entering  upon  his  apprenticeship,  which  com- 
menced at  the  early  age  of  twelve  years,  we  find  him  studying 
with  interest,  among  other  works  of  a  grave  character,  Xeno- 
phon's  Memorabilia ;  a  Treatise  on  Logic,  by  the  Society  of 
Port  Royal ;  and  Locke's  Essay  on  the  Conduct  of  the  Human 
Understanding — works  generally  supposed  to  be  relished  only 
by  matured  intellect  and  cultivated  taste.  About  this  time  he 
also  devoted  much  of  his  leisure  to  the  practice  of  English 
composition.  He  seems  to  have  been  fully  aware,  even  at 
this  early  age,  of  the  great  advantage  it  is  to  every  one,  in 
every  condition  of  life,  to  be  able  to  express  himself  clearly, 
forcibly,  and  elegantly  in  his  native  tongue ;  and  he  spared  no 
labour  or  pains  to  attain  this  accomplishment.  His  days  and 
nights,  as  Dr.  Johnson  afterwards  recommended,  were  there- 
fore given  to  Addison  and  the  Spectator.  Barely  to  be  able  to 
make  himself  understood — to  acquire  that  style  of  easy  writing 
which  is  said  to  constitute  the  hardest  reading — was  not  suffi- 
cient for  Franklin.  He  had  little  faith  in  Dogberry's  notion, 
that  reading  and  writing  come  by  nature,  even  to  the  fortunate 
tenant  of  a  printing-office;  and  he  did  not  cease  from  his  efforts 
until  he  felt  satisfied — and  few  will  say  he  was  deceived  in 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  191 

this — that  he  had  at  least  approximated  the  excellence  of  his 
model. 

Franklin's  early  love  of  justice  and  liberty,  and  his  hatred 
of  intolerance  and  oppression,  were  worthy  of  both  his  New 
England  and  his  Old  England  origin.  He  lived  in  an  age 
when  children  and  youth  were  treated  by  their  parents  and 
relatives  with  great  harshness  and  severity.  His  elder  brother, 
to  whom  he  was  apprenticed,  seems  to  have  been  a  man  of 
irritable  and  violent  temper;  and  more  than  once,  for  light 
and  venial  offences,  he  inflicted  heavy  blows  upon  the  embryo 
philosopher.  Though  Franklin  never  after  manifested  resent- 
ment for  this  cruel  treatment,  but  sought  rather  to  find  excuses 
for  it,  it  is  evident  that,  at  the  time,  it  deeply  wounded  his 
feelings.  It  induced  him  to  take  what,  under  other  circum- 
stances, would  have  been  an  unjustifiable  advantage  of  his 
brother, — and  clandestinely  to  leave  his  home  and  friends,  at 
the  early  age  of  seventeen,  and  throw  himself,  friendless  and 
poor,  upon  the  wide  world  of  adventure. 

No  man  ever  made  a  better  use  than  Franklin  of  the 
injuries  done  him.  He  permitted  them  to  remain  vivid  in  his 
mind,  only  that  they  might  nerve  his  resolution  never  in  his 
turn  to  inflict  like  injuries  upon  others. 

Removed  from  paternal  direction,  he  became  exposed  to 
all  the  temptations  that  beset  the  path  of  the  inexperienced. 
His  religious  principles  were  shaken,  and  he  fell  into  serious 
errors.  He  was  made  the  dupe  of  a  heartless  imposition  by 
Governor  Keith,  and  was  thrown  upon  the  world  of  London, 
as  friendless  as  when  he  first  ate  his  roll  in  the  streets  of 
Philadelphia,  and  quenched  his  thirst  in  the  Schuylkill.  This 
was  his  hour  of  peril — the  ordeal  from  which  so  few  escape 
unscathed.  A  year  and  a  half  spent  in  England  added  some- 
thing to  his  knowledge  and  experience,  but  contributed  little 
to  his  morals  or  his  purse.  He  returned  to  Philadelphia,  and 
soon  after  went  into  business  with  a  partner,  in  the  twenty- 
second  year  of  his  age.  It  was  then  that  he  reflected  seriously 
upon  his  principles  and  his  conduct.  He  had  been  religiously 
educated  by  his  parents,  and  the  golden  age  of  his  childhood 
revived  in  his  memory.  He  looked  at  his  Deistical  principles 
in  the  light  of  experience ; — he  tested  the  tree  by  its  fruit, 


192  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

and  the  result  was,  a  conviction  of  its  worthlessness.  He 
saw  that  his  friends  the  free-thinkers,  who  boasted  their 
superiority  to  vulgar  prejudice,  were  also  found  to  be  above 
moral  obligations.  "  I  grew  convinced,''  he  says,  "  that  truth, 
sincerity,  and  integrity,  between  man  and  man,  were  of  the 
utmost  importance  to  the  felicity  of  life,  and  I  formed  resolu- 
tions to  practise  them  ever  while  I  lived." 

Franklin  now  began  deliberately  to  shape  his  course  for 
the  future.  All  his  actions  were  governed  by  fixed  principles, 
and  were  made  subservient  to  some  important  end.  He  had 
the  sagacity  to  see,  that  whatever  may  be  the  object  which 
men  propose  to  themselves  as  the  result  of  their  labours,  yet, 
really  and  substantially,  all  their  happiness  is  derived  from 
action — from  the  constant  and  vigorous  exercise  of  some  or 
all  of  their  faculties.  He  saw,  that  although  the  man  in 
pursuit  of  wealth  looks  forward  to  a  period  when  he  hopes 
quietly  to  enjoy  the  fruit  of  his  gains ;  and  the  ambitious  man 
anticipates  the  time  when  he  may  repose  upon  his  laurels,  and 
regale  himself  with  listening  to  the  approbation  and  applause 
of  the  world,  still,  in  neither  case  are  their  ends  ever  realized. 
An  inexorable  law  of  our  nature  has  associated  pleasure  and 
delight  only  with  activity.  The  habits  formed  for  the  attain- 
ment of  an  end  become  incompatible  with  the  enjoyment  of 
the  long-sought  object.  The  couch  of  luxury  is  transformed 
to  a  bed  of  thorns ;  and  the  garlands  of  ambition  become  more 
withered  and  worthless  than  the  fading  leaves  of  autumn. 
Franklin's  philosophical  mind  saw  this  at  an  early  age,  and  he 
proposed  to  himself  the  noblest  end  to  which  human  endeavour 
can  be  directed — a  life  of  active  benevolence  and  usefulness 
to  his  fellow-men.  This  principle,  early  cherished,  to  which 
all  things  were  made  subservient,  grew  with  his  growth,  and 
became  the  delight  of  his  life.  If  we  lose  sight  of  this  his 
ruling  motive,  we  fail  to  understand  his  character.  He  was 
industrious  and  frugal,  and  laboured  hard  to  procure  wealth ; 
and  he  frankly  acknowledged  that  he  was  not  without  ambi- 
tion— that  he  valued  the  esteem  of  his  fellow-men  ;  these, 
however,  were  but  means  to  a  worthier  end.  Through  life 
his  actions  testify,  that  his  ambition  and  love  of  wealth  were 
subordinate  passions,  which  he  was  ever  willing  to  sacrifice 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  193 

to  his  ruling  desire  to  be  useful  to  his  friends,  to  his  country, 
and  to  the  world. 

Injustice  has  been  done  to  Franklin,  both  in  England  and 
our  own  country,  by  not  distinguishing  between  the  principal 
and  the  subordinate  in  his  character.  He  has  been  repre- 
sented as  the  impersonation  of  mere  thrift,  and  the  patron 
saint  of  worldly  wisdom  and  prudence, — as  a  man  whose 
teachings  would  sacrifice  all  generous  emotion  at  the  bidding 
of  a  low  expediency  and  for  personal  advancement.  No 
greater  injustice  can  be  done  him  than  this.  No  man  who 
has  attained  celebrity  ever  less  deserved  such  a  portrait. 

Franklin  knew  well  that  independence  in  pecuniary  affairs, 
freedom  from  the  thousand  embarrassments  of  harassing  penury, 
are  not  only  essential  to  the  comfort  of  life,  but  no  mean 
guardians  of  independence  of  mind ;  he  also  knew  that  they 
are  the  first  requisite,  the  indispensable  condition,  of  every 
one  who  would  effectually  serve  either  his  friends  or  his 
country.  Having  settled  this  in  his  own  mind,  he  chose  for 
himself  the  surest,  most  direct,  and  feasible  means  of  attaining 
this  condition.  His  example  and  precepts  on  the  subject  of 
economy — on  the  means  of  obtaining  independence  and  com- 
fort— are  therefore  the  best  the  world  affords. 

But  though  Franklin  was  well  aware  that  no  structure 
can  endure  that  is  not  built  on  a  firm  foundation, — though  he 
insisted  upon  this  as  of  the  first  and  highest  importance, — yet 
no  one  was  ever  less  in  danger  of  mistaking  a  mere  foundation 
for  the  edifice  itself.  As  a  means  to  an  end,  he  insisted  upon 
pecuniary  independence  as  a  sine  qucL  non ;  but,  as  an  end  in 
itself,  or  as  a  means  to  mere  personal  and  felfish  gratification 
and  aggrandizement,  he  looked  upon  it  with  all  the  contempt 
it  deserved.  Few  men  have  ever  succeeded  so  well  as  he,  in 
practically  assigning  to  the  gifts  of  fortune  their  true  import- 
ance and  actual  value. 

As  one  among  many  instances  that  might  be  mentioned, 
to  prove  that  Franklin  had  higher  ends  in  view  than  wealth, 
we  may  refer  to  the  fact  of  his  having  invented  the  stove  that 
goes  by  his  name, — so  well  known  to  our  mothers  and  grand- 
mothers;— which  was  so  much  used  even  in  his  own  day,  that 
several  fortunes  were  made  by  the  manufacture  and  sale  of  it. 


194  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

Governor  Thomas,  of  Pennsylvania,  was  so  well  pleased  with 
it,  that  he  offered  to  secure  to  the  inventor  a  patent  for  the 
sole  vending  of  it  for  a  term  of  years  ;  "  but  I  declined,"  says 
Franklin,  "  from  a  principle  which  has  ever  weighed  with  me 
on  such  occasions;  namely, That,  as  we  enjoy  great  advantages 
from  the  inventions  of  others,  we  should  be  glad  of  an  oppor- 
tunity to  serve  others  by  any  invention  of  ours ;  and  this  we 
should  do  freely  and  generously  " 

Injustice  has  also  been  done  to  the  religious  character  of 
Franklin ;  for  though  it  is  true  that  he  could  not  be  classed 
with  any  denomination  of  Christians  of  his  day;  and  though  it 
is  also  due  to  truth  to  declare  our  belief  in  a  deeper  and  higher 
religious  experience  than  he  ever  attained;  still,  the  devotional 
habits  of  his  mature  years,  his  belief  in  a  future  state  of  rewards 
and  punishments,  and  his  firm  reliance  on  a  particular  Provi- 
dence, exercising  a  constant  and  guardian  watchfulness  over 
the  affairs  of  men,  take  him  out  of  the  ranks  of  any  class 
of  skeptics  of  either  ancient  or  modern  times.  A  favourite 
article  of  his  creed,  and  one  that  lay  at  the  spring  of  all  his 
actions,  was — "  That  the  most  acceptable  service  to  God,  is 
doing  good  to  man."  These  were  his  views  so  early  as  the 
twenty-seventh  year  of  his  age. 

Franklin  was  probably  the  original  founder  of  the  many 
institutions  existing  among  us  for  mutual  improvement.  He 
was  one  of  the  first  to  see  the  advantage  of  associated  effort 
for  mental  and  moral  purposes.  We  are  all  familiar  with  the 
history  of  the  "  Junto,"  instituted  by  him  in  his  twenty-third 
year,  and  which,  forty  years  after  its  establishment,  became 
the  basis  of  the  American  Philosophical  Society,  of  which  he 
was  the  first  president.  It  is  probably  to  the  wisdom  and 
liberality  of  the  rules  which  Franklin  drew  up  for  the  govern- 
ment of  the  "Junto"  that  it  owed  its  protracted  existence. 
We  may  also  add,  that  Franklin,  in  his  turn,  was  doubtless 
mainly  indebted  to  the  "Junto" — to  its  discipline,  and  the 
practice  it  afforded  him  in  the  consideration  and  discussion  of 
questions  of  the  highest  moment — for  the  practical  wisdom 
and  readiness  which  he  afterwards  brought  to  the  public 
councils  of  his  country.  The  debates  of  the  club  were  under 
the  direction  of  a  president,  and  conducted  in  the  sincere 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  195 

spirit  of  inquiry  after  truth,  without  fondness  for  dispute  or 
desire  of  victory ;  and,  to  prevent  warmth,  all  expressions  of 
positiveness  in  opinion,  or  direct  contradiction,  were  made 
contraband,  and  prohibited  under  pecuniary  penalties.  A 
revival  and  adoption  of  the  rules  of  the  "  Junto,"  would  have 
saved  from  shipwreck  many  of  the  associations  that  have  been 
started  in  our  midst  for  similar  purposes.  The  uncommon 
good  sense  and  liberality  of  the  four  questions  put  to  a  person 
about  to  be  qualified  as  a  member  of  this  little  society,  must 
be  our  excuse  for  repeating  them  here : — 

"  1st.  Have  you  any  particular  disrespect  to  any  present 
members  ?  Answer.  I  have  not. 

"  2d.  Do  you  sincerely  declare  that  you  love  mankind  in 
general,  of  what  profession  or  religion  soever  ?  Answer. 
I  do. 

"  3d.  Do  you  think  any  person  ought  to  be  harmed  in  his 
body,  name,  or  goods,  for  mere  speculative  opinions,  or  his 
external  way  of  worship  ?  Answer.  No. 

"4th.  Do  you  love  truth  for  truth's  sake,  and  will  you 
endeavour  impartially  to  find  and  receive  it  yourself,  and 
communicate  it  to  others  ?  Answer.  Yes." 

Franklin  married,  in  his  twenty-fifth  year,  a  lady  as  much 
disposed,  he  says,  to  industry  and  frugality  as  himself.  By 
her  assistance  and  co-operation,  and  his  own  untiring  industry; 
by  the  valuable  aid  which  his  character  for  integrity  soon 
induced  his  friends  to  volunteer  to  him,  and  by  avoiding  every 
temptation  to  embark  in  speculations  for  becoming  suddenly 
rich,  he  obtained  a  competence  while  yet  in  the  flower  of  his 
age.  At  the  same  time,  hand  in  hand  with  his  daily  labour 
to  better  his  material  condition — putting  into  type  his  own 
articles  for  his  newspaper,  and  sharing  in  the  severe  toil  of 
working  it  off  on  the  old-fashioned  press — he  had  been  pursu- 
ing, constantly  and  systematically,  a  course  of  study  which 
fitted  him  for  a  high  sphere  of  usefulness. 

It  ought  to  be  remembered  to  his  honour,  that  Franklin  ne- 
ver forgot  the  obligations  which  the  assistance  he  had  received 
from  friends  imposed  upon  him.  He  never  neglected  an  op- 
portunity to  be  useful  to  others  in  the  same  way  in  his  turn. 
Many  of  the  first  printers  in  our  country  were  started  in  busi- 


196  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

ness  by  Franklin ;  and  his  terms  to  them  were  always  liberal, 
and  his  conduct  kind  and  indulgent.  Nor  did  he  end  here. 
At  the  close  of  his  life  he  bequeathed  in  his  will  one  thousand 
pounds  sterling  to  the  city  of  Philadelphia,  and  a  like  sum  to 
the  city  of  Boston,  to  be  loaned  in  sums  of  60  pounds  sterling, 
at  a  low  rate  of  interest,  to  young  married  mechanics  of  good 
character.  Nearly  500  persons  have  availed  themselves  of 
Franklin's  generosity ;  and  the  fund,  greatly  increased  in 
amount,  still  exists  for  the  benefit  of  mechanics. 

Franklin  never  ceased  to  love  the  profession  by  which  he 
had  risen  to  eminence.  He  always  retained  a  fondness  for  the 
conversation  of  printers,  and  was  ever  ready  to  enter  into  their 
schemes,  and  to  aid  and  suggest  improvements  in  their  art. 
Even  while  he  associated  with  statesmen  and  courtiers,  and 
had  stood  in  the  presence  of  kings,  the  same  habits  continued. 
So  far  was  he  from  being  reserved  on  the  subject  of  his  early 
condition  and  pursuits,  that  he  often  alluded  to  them,  as  giving 
value  to  his  experience,  and  as  furnishing  incidents  illustrative 
of  his  maxims  of  life. 

Franklin  was  indebted  for  his  first  important  success  in  life, 
and  for  his  introduction  to  public  notice,  to  his  superior  work- 
manship as  a  printer,  and  his  ability  to  write  with  clearness, 
precision,  and  energy.  His  newspaper,  "  The  Pennsylvania 
Gazette,"  excelled  in  neatness  and  accuracy  any  thing  of  the 
kind  that  had  been  seen  before  in  the  colonies,  and  the  elegant 
contributions  of  his  pen  made  it  eagerly  sought  for.  His  rival, 
Bradford,  who  was  printer  to  the  Legislature,  had  struck  off 
an  Address  of  the  House  to  the  Governor  in  so  blundering  a 
manner,  that  Franklin  was  induced  to  reprint  it  neatly  and  cor- 
rectly. He  then  sent  a  copy  to  every  member.  The  next 
year  he  was  voted  printer  to  the  Legislature.  From  this  time 
he  gradually  rose  in  public  favor.  He  declares  that  he  never 
sought  for  office,  and  never  declined  to  serve  in  any  capacity 
where  he  could  be  useful.  But  his  private  virtue  and  integri- 
ty, his  modesty,  intelligence,  and  ability,  were  so  conspicuous, 
that  his  fellow-citizens  were  always  desirous  to  secure  his  ser- 
vices. 

From  being  printer  to  the  Assembly,  Franklin  rose  to  the 
office  of  its  Clerk.  He  was  afterwards  appointed  Postmaster 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  197 

of  Philadelphia,  the  duties  of  which  trust  he  performed  to  ge- 
neral satisfaction ;  and  at  length  his  fellow-citizens  chose  him 
to  represent  them  in  the  Legislature.  This  office  afforded  him 
an  appropriate  and  conspicuous  field  for  the  exercise  of  his 
great  and  brilliant  talents.  From  this  period,  which  was  twen- 
ty-six years  before  our  Declaration  of  Independence,  Franklin 
probably  contributed  more,  by  his  wise  and  prudent  counsels, 
and  his  public  acts  and  writings,  to  prepare  the  people  for  that 
great  event,  than  any  other  public  man  in  our  country. 

Time  will  not  permit  us  to  detail  the  many  great  and  im- 
portant measures  originated  by  Franklin  during  his  legislative 
career.  We  must  not,  however,  omit  to  mention,  that  as,  dur- 
ing the  period  when  he  was  employed  in  his  profession,  per- 
forming manual  labor,  he  found  opportunity  to  acquire  the 
knowledge  that  afterwards  gave  him  eminence  as  a  statesman ; 
so  also,  while  faithfully  serving  the  state  in  many  capacities, 
his  unremitting  industry  gave  him  leisure  for  pursuits  and  ori- 
ginal experiments  which  raised  him  to  the  first  rank  among 
scientific  men  and  philosophers.  In  his  48th  year  the  degree 
of  Master  of  Arts  was,  of  their  own  motion,  conferred  on  him 
by  the  two  highest  Colleges  in  our  country,  Harvard  and  Yale  ; 
and  he  was  shortly  after,  without  solicitation  on  his  part,  elected 
a  member  of  the  Royal  Society  of  London.  A  few  years  later, 
the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws  was  conferred  upon  him  by  the 
University  of  St.  Andrews,  in  Scotland ;  and  he  was  subse- 
quently elected  a  member  of  nearly  all  the  principal  scientific 
and  literary  societies  of  Europe  and  America. 

In  1753  he  was  appointed  Postmaster-General  for  the  Ame- 
rican Colonies,  and  in  this  capacity  he  was  deputed  by  the 
Pennsylvania  Assembly  to  wait  upon  General  Braddock,  who 
had  been  sent  over  from  England  with  two  regiments,  to  put 
an  end  to  the  old  French  war.  Franklin  suggested  to  him 
some  important  cautions,  which,  had  they  been  heeded,  might 
have  saved  that  ill-fated  commander  from  rushing  upon  his 
ruin;  but  his  blind  confidence  in  the  invincibleness  of  the 
King's  regular  and  disciplined  troops,  led  him  to  disdain  advice 
which,  he  acknowledged,  might  have  been  wholesome  for  raw 
American  militia.  Notwithstanding  Braddock's  headstrong 
obstinacy,  Franklin  pledged  his  own  private  credit — the  peo- 


198  THE 

pie  refusing  to  trust  the  commander  of  the  King's  regular 
troops — to  procure  horses  and  wagons,  for  the  expedition ;  and 
he  very  narrowly  escaped  being  ruined  in  his  fortune  to  redeem 
his  pledge. 

The  French  war  being  ended,  a  controversy  which  had 
long  been  carried  on  between  the  Pennsylvania  Assembly  and 
the  Proprietaries  of  the  colony — who  claimed  exemption  from 
taxation  of  their  immense  estates,  even  for  the  defence  of  the 
country — was  again  revived.  Franklin  had  always  taken  the 
side  of  the  Assembly  and  the  people  in  this  controversy ;  and 
he  was  now  deputed  agent  of  the  Assembly  to  the  British 
Court,  to  petition  the  King  for  a  redress  of  grievances.  His 
reputation  as  a  scholar  had  preceded  his  arrival  in  England. 
During  the  five  years  he  remained  in  that  country,  his  company 
was  sought  after  by  the  first  scientific  men  and  philosophers  of 
the  age.  By  his  perfect  knowledge  of  American  affairs,  and 
the  clear  light  in  which  he  unfolded  it ;  by  the  urbanity  of  his 
deportment  and  sincerity  of  his  conduct,  he  made  a  deep  im- 
pression on  the  Administration  then  in  power,  and  was  often 
consulted  by  them  on  the  general  business  of  the  colonies.  He 
also  succeeded  in  obtaining  the  end  of  his  mission ;  and  even 
the  Proprietaries  of  Pennsylvania,  whose  interests  were  strong- 
ly opposed  to  the  views  he  had  come  to  advocate,  were  com- 
pelled to  acquit  him  of  any  conduct  which  they  could  censure. 
Franklin's  sterling  honesty,  his  superiority  to  all  intrigue,  and 
reliance  upon  the  justice  of  the  cause  he  had  espoused,  secured 
to  him  constant  composure  and  self-possession,  and  enabled  him 
at  the  same  time  to  read,  to  evade,  and  to  pity  the  arts  and  sub- 
terfuges of  his  opponents. 

We  here  see  how  deep  and  strong,  by  his  knowledge  and 
experience  in  public  affairs,  were  thus  early  laid  the  founda- 
tions of  his  ability  to  serve  his  country  in  the  great  contest 
that  was  to  ensue.  He  returned  to  America  in  1762.  His 
stay  in  his  native  land,  however,  was  of  short  duration.  The 
controversy  between  the  Assembly  and  the  Proprietaries  still 
continued.  The  people  now  petitioned  for  a  radical  change  of 
government,  which  should  abrogate  the  authority  of  the  Pro- 
prietaries, and  substitute  a  royal  government  in  its  stead.  The 
Assembly  sustained  the  prayer  of  the  petitioners,  and  Franklin, 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  199 

who  had  always  been  a  favourite  in  that  body,  was  now  elevat- 
ed to  the  office  of  its  Speaker.  His  adversaries,  however,  suc- 
ceeded in  defeating  his  election  by  the  people  for  the  subse- 
quent session,  and  the  Assembly  appointed  him  as  a  special 
agent  to  proceed  again  to  the  court  of  Great  Britain.  In  ad- 
dition to  his  commission  to  take  charge  of  the  petition  for  a 
change  of  government,  he  was  also  specially  instructed  to  re- 
monstrate against  the  passage  of  the  famous  Stamp- Act,  which 
had  just  then  been  proposed,  as  well  as  to  manage  the  general 
affairs  of  the  province  of  Pennsylvania. 

Franklin  arrived  again  in  England  in  1764.  His  duties 
now  devolved  upon  him  the  conduct  of  affairs  of  the  gravest 
moment.  The  difficulties  between  England  and  America  had 
assumed  a  serious  aspect.  The  passage  of  the  Stamp-Act 
aroused  the  most  determined  opposition  in  all  the  colonies ; 
and  Franklin  was  considered  the  fittest  person  to  remonstrate 
against  it,  and  urge  its  immediate  repeal.  In  addition  to  his 
duties  in  behalf  of  Pennsylvania,  he  was  also  solicited  to  act 
as  agent  for  Massachusetts,  New  Jersey,  and  Georgia,  in  rela- 
tion to  the  Stamp- Act. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Dr.  Franklin  was  called  before 
Parliament  to  be  examined  respecting  the  state  of  affairs  in 
America.  His  answers  were  wholly  unpremeditated,  no  pre- 
vious notice  having  been  given  him  of  the  tenor  of  the  ques- 
tions intended  to  be  put  to  him ;  but  his  noble  bearing  on  that 
occasion,  the  fearlessness  with  which  he  defended  the  conduct 
of  his  countrymen,  and  censured  the  measures  of  the  Parlia- 
ment, left  a  deep  impression  upon  that  assembly  of  great  states- 
men, and  inspired  universal  respect  for  his  character,  as  well 
as  for  the  cause  he  had  so  warmly  espoused. 

Franklin  remained  eleven  years  in  England,  making  occa- 
sional journeys  to  France  and  other  countries  of  the  Continent, 
where  he  was  received  with  the  highest  marks  of  respect  and 
esteem.  During  all  this  time  he  was  unremitting  in  his  efforts 
for  the  welfare  of  his  country.  He  exerted  his  utmost  ability, 
and  in  many  instances  with  signal  success,  to  procure  the  re- 
peal of  measures  oppressive  to  the  colonies.  He  spared  no 
pains  to  conciliate  and  reconcile  the  two  countries  ;  and  when 
at  length  he  saw  that  a  collision  was  inevitable,  he  was  intimi- 


200  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

dated  by  no  danger  he  might  incur  from  urging  the  colonists  to 
prepare  themselves  for  the  contest.  The  English  ministry, 
knowing  the  high  place  he  held  in  the  love  and  esteem  of  his 
countrymen,  were  deeply  anxious  to  gain  him  to  their  interests ; 
and  accordingly  they  left  no  means  untried  to  compass  their 
end.  Flattery  and  promises  of  promotion,  threats  and  intimi- 
dation, were  in  vain  exhausted  for  this  purpose.  Franklin  re- 
mained true  to  the  cause  of  his  country,  not  less  from  convic- 
tion of  its  justice,  than  from  predilection  for  the  home  and  the 
friends  of  his  youth. 

His  firmness  procured  his  dismissal  from  his  place  at  the 
head  of  the  American  Post-Office ;  and  it  was  also  hinted  to 
him  by  the  high  officers  of  state,  that  it  was  best  for  the  colo- 
nies to  come  to  an  understanding  with  England,  since  their 
seaport  towns  might  so  easily  be  laid  in  ashes.  "  I  replied," 
says  Franklin,  "  that  the  chief  part  of  my  little  property  con- 
sisted of  houses  in  those  towns,  and  that  they  might  make 
bonfires  of  them  whenever  they  pleased  ;  that  the  fear  of  losing 
them  would  never  alter  my  resolution  to  resist  to  the  last  the 
claims  of  Parliament." 

Franklin  remained  long  enough  in  England  to  present  the 
Petition  of  the  first  Continental  Congress  to  the  King,  which 
was  laid  before  Parliament,  and  speedily  rejected  with  evident 
marks  of  contempt.  He  returned  to  Philadelphia  in  1775,  and, 
the  day  after  his  arrival,  was  chosen  by  the  Assembly  of  Penn- 
sylvania a  delegate  to  the  second  Continental  Congress. 

Franklin  was  now  no  longer  young.  Seventy  winters  had 
shed  their  snows  upon  his  venerable  head  :  toil  and  hardship, 
and  sorrow  had  done  their  work,  and  the  infirmities  of  age 
were  upon  him.  Death  had  severed  the  strong  attachments 
of  his  early  years.  The  wife  of  his  youth  slept  in  her  peaceful 
grave,  and  his  only  and  cherished  son  had  at  once  cruelly 
turned  his  back  upon  his  father  and  his  country.  At  such  a 
crisis,  when  the  vigorous  blood  of  mature  manhood  no  longer 
flowed  in  his  veins — when  his  knowledge,  gained  by  long  expe- 
rience, of  the  uncertainty  of  human  affairs — the  promptings  of 
nature,  soliciting  safety  and  repose — and  all  the  prudential  sug- 
gestions that  accompany  declining  years,  would  so  naturally 
counsel  and  justify  caution,  hesitancy,  and  reserve ;  at  such  a 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  201 

moment,  Franklin  was  summoned  to  embark  with  his  country- 
men upon  the  wreck-strewed  ocean  of  revolution  ;  called  to 
risk  the  humble  fortune  he  had  acquired  by  honest  industry,  so 
needed  to  provide  for  his  growing  infirmities,  to  expose  to  the 
jeers  of  the  scoffer  his  good  name,  and  the  reputation  for  wis- 
dom and  foresight  he  so  deservedly  enjoyed  throughout  Eu- 
rope, to  place  even  the  little  remnant  of  life  remaining  to  him 
in  imminent  peril  of  the  ignominious  death  of  the  scaffold. 

None  of  these  things  moved  him.  For  weal  and  woe,  for 
life  and  death,  he  had  consecrated  himself  to  the  cause  of  truth, 
and  justice,  and  his  country,  and  he  asked  only  how  he  could 
do  most  service  in  its  behalf.  In  the  spring  of  1776  he  was 
appointed  by  Congress  a  Commissioner  to  proceed  to  Canada, 
to  assist  the  Canadians  in  forming  a  provisional  government, 
and  to  regulate  the  operations  of  the  army.  Though  his  mis- 
sion produced  little  or  no  effect,  and  his  health  was  greatly 
impaired  by  the  hardships  of  his  journey ;  though  he  had  the 
mortification  to  see  the  American  army  retreating  from  Que- 
bec, pursued  by  a  well-disciplined  enemy,  superior  in  numbers 
and  amply  supplied,  yet  his  zeal  and  devotion  to  the  cause  of 
freedom  never  for  a  moment  abated.  Immediately  after  his 
return  he  resumed  his  seat  in  Congress,  and  engaged  in  its  bu- 
siness with  unabated  activity  and  cheerfulness. 

In  that  body  of  illustrious  men,  which  the  Earl  of  Chatham, 
pronounced  the  most  honorable  assembly  of  statesmen  since 
those  of  the  ancient  Greeks  and  Romans  in  the  most  virtuous 
times,  no  one  was  more  conspicuous  for  the  wisdom  and  matu- 
rity of  his  views,  or  for- the  decision  and  boldness  of  the  steps 
he  counselled,  than  Franklin.  His  colleagues  honoured  him 
with  the  highest  mark  of  their  confidence,  by  placing  him  on 
the  memorable  committee  of  five  that  was  chosen  to  draft  the 
Declaration  of  Independence. 

•  There  is  something  in  the  popular  estimate  of  Franklin's 
character,  that  is  averse  to  associate  his  name  with  the  stirring 
scenes  of  '76,  and  particularly  with  the  first  conception  of  that 
wonderful  instrument  that  thrilled  the  nations  like  the  sudden 
blast  of  a  trumpet,  and  secured  at  once  and  for  ever  the  inde- 
pendence of  our  country.  It  is  because  in  every  character 
approaching  perfection,  as  in  every  perfect  work  of  art,  so  lit- 
25 


202  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

tie  is  revealed  to  a  superficial  glance,  and  so  much  remains 
unseen,  to  surprise  and  delight  the  attentive  observer  and  stu- 
dent, that  Franklin's  mind,  in  common  with  that  of  many  men 
of  the  highest  endowments,  has  been  liable  to  be  underrated, 
at  least,  if  not  greatly  undervalued.  But  the  daring  boldness 
and  decision  of  Franklin,  in  a  cause  which  his  reason  fully 
approved,  is  a  trait  in  his  character  which  no  one  acquainted 
with  his  whole  history  would  venture  to  dispute.  In  ardour, 
firmness,  and  courage,  in  his  own  appropriate  sphere,  he  was 
excelled  by  no  one  of  the  great  men  of  the  Revolution.  No 
one  of  them  gave  a  more  decided  support  to  the  Declaration  of 
Independence.  Let  who  would  falter  or  waver,  never  a  doubt 
existed  as  to  the  course  Franklin  would  take,  when  the  instru- 
ment that  perilled  all  earthly  hopes  for  the  cause  of  freedom 
was  presented  for  his  signature.  A  life-long  training  had  fitted 
him  for  that  hour.  Beneath  the  placid  and  modest  exterior  of 
the  philosopher  and  sage,  there  swelled  as  brave  and  heroic  a 
heart  as  ever  beat  in  a  human  bosom  ;  and  he  asked  no  higher 
boon,  no  worthier  climax  to  his  long  and  useful  life  in  the 
cause  of  humanity,  than  permission  to  enroll  his  name  with 
that  band  of  immortals,  "  that  priesthood  of  liberty,  who  stood 
up  unmoved,  undismayed,  while  the  ark  of  their  salvation 
thundered,  and  shook,  and  lightened  in  their  faces,  putting  all 
of  them  their  venerable  hands  upon  it,  nevertheless."* 

Four  months  had  scarcely  elapsed  after  the  Declaration  of 
Independence,  when  Franklin  was  again  called  to  take  charge 
of  the  interests  of  his  country  in  a  foreign  land.  The  Conti- 
nental Congress  were  solicitous  to  secure  the  good  will  of 
France  in  the  struggle  upon  which  they  had  entered,  and  also, 
if  possible,  to  obtain  the  favour  of  loans  in  money,  or  the  muni- 
tions of  war.  The  high  esteem  in  which  Franklin  was  held 
by  the  most  cultivated  minds  in  France,  could  not  fail  to  de- 
signate him  as  the  fittest  person  in  America  to  be  intrusted 
with  this  weighty  commission.  He  held  himself  in  readiness,  as 
he  had  ever  done,  to  obey  the  behest  of  his  country.  Previous 
to  embarking,  however,  he  gave  the  highest  evidence  of  his 
devotedness  to  the  cause  of  that  country,  and  of  his  confidence 

*  Edinburgh  Review. 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  203 

in  the  result  of  her  perilous  struggle,  by  raising  all  the  money 
he  could  command — being  between  three  and  four  thousand 
pounds  sterling — and  placing  it  as  a  loan  at  the  disposal  of 
Congress.  . 

After  a  boisterous  passage,  during  which  the  vessel  in 
which  he  sailed,  being  chased  by  British  cruisers,  was  kept 
constantly  prepared  for  action,  Franklin  arrived  in  France. 
The  noble  French  people,  ever  ready  to  do  honour  to  distin- 
guished virtue,  received  him  with  an  enthusiasm  seldom  mani- 
fested even  towards  princes  and  nobles.  In  their  eyes,  Frank- 
lin had  won  for  himself  a  nobility  in  whose  splendour  that  of 
ancestry  grew  pale.  "  Men  imagined,"  says  a  contemporary 
French  historian,  "  that  they  saw  in  him  a  sage  of  antiquity, 
come  back  to  give  austere  lessons  and  generous  examples  to  the 
moderns.  They  personified  in  him  the  Republic,  of  which  he 
was  the  representative  and  the  legislator.  They  regarded  his 
virtues  as  those  of  his  countrymen,  and  even  judged  of  their  phy- 
siognomy by  the  imposing  and  serene  traits  of  his  own.  Hap- 
py was  he  who  could  gain  admittance  to  see  him  in  the  house 
which  he  occupied  at  Passy.  This  venerable  old  man,  it  was 
said,  joined  to  the  demeanour  of  Phocion  the  spirit  of  Socrates. 
Courtiers  were  struck  with  his  dignity,  and  discovered  in  him 
the  profound  statesman." 

How  valuable  to  his  country  in  her  hour  of  extremity  was 
then  the  fame  of  her  illustrious  son !  And  Franklin  generously 
devoted  his  fame,  as  he  had  before  his  life  and  fortune,  to  the 
service  of  his  country.  Again  and  again  did  he  consent  to  be- 
come as  it  were  a  suppliant  for  her  at  the  French  Court,  even 
at  the  risk  of  wearying  the  cabinet  by  his  importunity.  The 
important  aid  which  Franklin  obtained  for  the  colonies  in  Eu- 
rope, at  this  critical  period  of  their  history,  can  hardly  be  over- 
rated. There  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  veneration  in  which 
he  was  held  in  France  had  great  weight  in  inducing  the  Mar- 
quis de  Lafayette,  that  dearest  foster-son  of  our  country,  to 
leave  the  land  of  his  birth,  and  the  society  of  his  young  and 
beautiful  wife,  and  the  brilliant  career  which  his  great  wealth 
and  family  connections  opened  to  him,  to  share  the  fortunes  of 
a  handful  of  brave  men  in  a  distant  wilderness,  proscribed  as 
rebels  and  outlaws  by  the  most  powerful  government  on 
earth. 


204  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

The  appearance  of  so  eminent  an  advocate  for  America  at 
the  Court  of  Versailles,  and  the  prospect  of  an  offensive  and 
defensive  league  between  her  colonies  and  her  most  ancient 
and  inveterate  foe,  was  the  cause  of  no  little  uneasiness  to 
England,  and  excited  against  Franklin  the  jealousy  and  hatred 
of  her  ministers.  They  accordingly  set  in  motion  all  the  well- 
known  machinery  of  diplomacy,  to  destroy  his  influence,  and 
induce  him  to  abandon  his  mission.  Flattery,  promises,  and 
threats  were  again  resorted  to.  Agents  were  specially  deputed, 
kindly  to  inform  him  that  he  was  surrounded  by  French  min- 
isterial spies.  When  at  length  it  was  hinted  that  even  his  life 
was  in  danger,  Franklin  thanked  his  informant  for  his  kind 
caution,  "  but,"  added  he,  "  having  nearly  finished  a  long  life,  I 
set  but  little  value  upon  what  remains  of  it.  Like  a  draper, 
when  one  chaffers  with  him  for  a  remnant,  I  am  ready  to  say, 
'  As  it  is  only  a  fag-end,  I  will  not  differ  with  you  about  it ; 
take  it  for  what  you  please.'  Perhaps  the  best  use  such  an  old 
fellow  can  be  put  to  is  to  make  a  martyr  of  him." 

Franklin  remained  nine  years  in  France,  in  the  almost  con- 
stant performance  of  arduous  and  valuable  services  for  his 
country.  At  length  her  independence,  of  which  he  had  assist- 
ed to  lay  the  foundation,  was  crowned  and  consummated  by 
its  full  recognition  in  a  Treaty  of  Peace  with  England,  the  ne- 
gotiations for  which  at  Paris  he  had  been  the  principal  agent 
in  conducting.  He  had  now  unexpectedly  survived  the  ac- 
complishment of  a  great  work.  He  had  assisted  at  the  first 
and  last  acts  of  that  memorable  drama  which  constitutes  an 
epoch  even  in  world-history.  When  his  beloved'country  first 
summoned  her  brave  ones  to  the  onset, — when  insulted  Li- 
berty 

"  Peal'd  her  loud  drum,  and  twang'd  her  trumpet  horn," 

he  was  foremost  among  the  first  to  rally  to  her  standard,  and 
to  peril  fortune  and  fame,  ease  and  preferment,  and  even  life 
itself  in  her  sacred  cause.  And  now  that  a  benignant  Heaven 
had  signally  smiled  upon  trusting  hope  and  earnest  endeavour ; 
now  that  in  his  aged  hands  had  been  placed  the  olive-branch 
of  peace  to  be  borne  to  his  natal  soil,  well  might  he  exclaim,  in 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  205 

fulness  of  heart,  with  the  aged  Simeon — "Now  lettest  thou 
thy  servant  depart  in  peace !" 

Franklin  was  now  in  his  eightieth  year.  A  painful  disease 
had  fastened  upon  him ;  and  his  earnest  desire  to  spend  the 
remainder  of  his  days  in  his  native  land,  induced  him  to  solicit 
his  recall.  The  Congress  granted  his  request.  On  the  occa- 
sion of  taking  his  leave  of  them,  no  mark  of  attention  or  res- 
pect was  omitted  on  the  part  of  his  ardent  and  numerous 
friends  in  France.  His  departure  was  anticipated  with  regret 
by  them  all.  His  bodily  infirmities  not  permitting  the  motion 
of  a  carriage,  he  was  conveyed  to  the  seaport  of  Havre  de 
Grace  in  the  Queen's  litter,  which  had  been  kindly  offered  him 
for  his  journey.  His  leisure  during  this  his  last  sea-voyage 
was  occupied  in  writing  valuable  papers  on  scientific  subjects, 
which  were  afterwards  read  before  the  American  Philosophi- 
cal Society,  and  published  in  a  volume  of  the  Society's  Trans- 
actions. 

He  arrived  in  Philadelphia  in  1785.  Although  he  had 
considered  his  public  life  at  an  end  on  leaving  France,  and 
anticipated  that  he  was  henceforward  to  enjoy,  in  the  midst 
of  his  friends,  complete  repose  from  his  labours,  yet  in  this  he 
was  disappointed.  Notwithstanding  his  age  and  infirmities, 
so  high  was  the  value  set  upon  his  service,  that  he  was  chosen 
President  of  Pennsylvania  (an  office  corresponding  to  that  of 
Governor  in  the  other  States)  for  three  successive  years 
after  his  return  home  ;  and  was  only  then  released  from  ser- 
vice by  constitutional  ineligibility. 

He  was  also  chosen  a  delegate  from  Pennsylvania  to  the 
Convention  for  forming  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States. 
Though  then  in  his  eighty-second  year,  he  attended  faithfully 
to  the  duties  of  the  Convention.  The  published  record  of 
speeches  he  then  made,  shows  no  abatement  in  his  benevo- 
lence, his  patriotism,  or  his  intellectual  vigor. 

Franklin  continued  in  public  life  till  within  a  year  and  a 
half  of  his  death.  After  this  time,  though  often  consulted  on 
public  affairs,  he  never  again  held  office.  His  painful  disease 
now  left  him  but  few  moments  of  repose.  For  the  last  twelve 
months  of  his  life  he  was  chiefly  confined  to  his  bed.  Still 
his  cheerfulness  and  serenity  never  deserted  him ;  his  readi- 


206  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

ness  and  disposition  to  do  good  awoke  at  every  interval  of  his 
pains.  Only  twenty-four  days  before  his  decease,  he  finished 
a  paper  in  behalf  of  humanity,  which,  for  happy  conception  and 
sound  reasoning,  is  said  to  be  not  inferior  to  any  of  his  writings. 
No  repining  or  peevish  expression  ever  escaped  him.  Calmly, 
and  with  ineffable  peace,  on  the  17th  of  April,  1790,  in  the 
eighty-fifth  year  of  his  age,  his  sun  sunk  to  the  horizon,  to  rise 
again  in  a  purer  sphere,  in  the  vigour  and  beauty  of  eternal 
youth. 

We  have  thus  essayed  to  trace  a  few  of  the  leading  inci- 
dents in  the  life  of  Franklin.  Do  we  not  well  to  honour  his 
memory  ?  Ought  we  ever  to  let  slip  an  occasion  like  this  to 
refresh  our  minds  with  a  recollection  of  his  great  and  noble 
virtues  ?  His  was  indeed  a  character  of  rare  excellence — a 
union  of  great  qualities  seldom  found  existing  together  in  the 
same  individual.  He  united  in  himself  the  two  great  princi- 
ples of  wise  conservatism  and  enlightened  progress.  He  was 
free  alike  from  a  blind  worship  of  time-honoured  error,  and  a 
superficial  contempt  for  those  monuments  of  wisdom  and  ex- 
perience that  have  survived  the  storm  and  wreck  of  cen- 
turies of  desolation.  While  he  maintained  the  position  of  a 
bold  experimenter— of  a  man  who  feared  not  to  question,  by 
a  rigorous  logic,  even  things  that  had  been  held  almost  too 
sacred  for  human  scrutiny — yet  no  one  ever  stood  in  less 
danger  of  being  hurried  away  by  the  mere  current  of  innova- 
tion. All  other  things  might  admit  of  change,  modification, 
or  re-construction  ;  but  the  great  principles  of  Truth,  Justice, 
and  Integrity,  could  never  yield  in  his  mind  to  further  the  suc- 
cess of  any  cause,  however  beneficial  its  apparent  character. 
These,  with  him,  admitted  of  neither  change  nor  improvement. 
They  were  fixed,  immutable,  and  eternal.  And  though  he 
witnessed  with  interest  the  first  throes  and  upheavings  of  that 
great  revolution,  whose  shocks  have  been  felt  since  his  day  in 
nearly  every  country  on  the  globe,  he  yet  felt  assured  that  the 
transient  only  and  the  perishable  would  yield  to  its  convulsions. 
He  had  a  deep  and  abiding  faith  and  conviction  in  the  legi- 
timate supremacy  of  moral  principle  :  a  faith  not  merely  of 
the  head  or  the  intellect ;  not  a  bare  formal  assent  to  the  com- 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  207 

mon-place  axioms  of  philosophy  or  religion ;  but  a  faith  that 
descended  to  the  heart  and  the  affections,  and  became  a  rule  and 
guide  of*  all  his  conduct.  This  it  was  that  enabled  him  to  view 
with  complacency,  and  even  with  joy,  the  breaking  up  and 
passing  away  of  hoary  institutions,  on  which  more  timid  minds 
were  fain  to  believe  that  even  the  foundation  of  human  society 
reposed.  Franklin  looked  higher  and  deeper  for  this  great 
substructure ;  and  though 

"  Seas  should  waste,  and  skies  in  smoke  decay, 
Rocks  fall  to  dust,  and  mountains  melt  away," — 

he  yet  could  utter  with  assurance  the  words  of  the  Apostle  : — 
"  Nevertheless,  the  foundation  of  God  standeth  sure." 


THE  GENIUS  OF  THE  PRESS, 


BY    EDWARD   A.   M'LAUGHLIN. 


Canst  thoa  send  lightnings,  that  they  may  go,  and  say  unto  thee,  Here  we  are  ?— JOB. 

O'er  Reason's  dim,  beclouded  heaven, 

The  potent  GENIUS  moved  sublime, 
Where  Moral  Night  her  car  had  driven 

Along  the  centuried  Course  of  Time : — 
Save  here  and  there  a  misty  ray 

That  twinkled  forth  the  boundless  cope, 
The  mental  skies  in  darkness  lay, 

And  slept  beneath,  the  cherub  Hope. 


Midway  the  Spirit  stayed  his  flight, 

Where  sev'nfold  gloom  involved  the  sphere, — 
Reversed  the  wheels  of  Moral  Night, 

And  chained  the  Demon  charioteer. 


208  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK 

He  called  ! — From  out  the  sullen  vast 
The  Intellectual  Lightnings  came, — 

Swift  to  their  mighty  master  passed, 
And  stood  revealed  in  Tongues  of  flame. 


They  bow  their  homage, — "  Here  we  are  !* 

As  unto  each  he  gave  command, — 
These  to  illume  the  Isles  afar, 

And  those  to  light  the  broader  Land. 
Then  broke  the  Day,  so  long  confined 

Beneath  the  Night  of  moral  gloom, 
And  warmed  to  life  and  bloom  the  mind, 

As  spring  awakes  from  winter's  tomb. 


What  glories  meet  the  spirit-eye, 

Far  in  thy  depths,  Eternity, 
Where  burn,  in  that  untravelled  sky, 

The  quenchless  lamps  of  Destiny, — 
The  destiny  of  being,  here, 

Spann'd  by  the  bow  of  promise  bright, 
While  GEHIUS,  with  Ithuriel  spear 

Transforms  the  darkness  into  light. 


Vicegerent  of  OMNISCIENCE,— him 

All  art,  all  science,  shall  obey ; 
Winged  like  the  four-faced  cherubim, 

To  guide  the  car  of  MORAL  DAT  : — 
Roll  on,  roll  on  the  burning  wheels, 

Ye  spirit  Tongues  your  fires  impress, 
Till  Earth,  with  all  its  Household,  feels 

The  hallowing  influence  of  THE  PRESS. 


THE  PRINTING  OFFICE — The  Mint  at  which  the  treasures 
of  the  mind  are  coined  and  made  to  pass  current  in  the  com- 
munity. May  the  workmen  always  find  plenty  of  quoins  in 
the  drawer. 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  209 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TEMPERANCE. 


BY   PETEE   C.    BAKEE. 

No  cause  ever  presented  stronger  claims  upon  every  lover 
of  his  country  and  race  than  that  of  Temperance,  and  yet  no 
cause  has  more  to  surmount.  But  we  must  not  be  dishearten- 
ed. As  the  silent,  unnoticed  drop  gradually  wears  away  the 
flinty  rock,  so  shall  the  Pledge  finally  find  its  way  into  the 
stubborn,  stony  heart.  Labor — constant,  unremitting  labor — is 
however,  our  only  hope.  Public  Sentiment  is  the  all-potent 
power  we  must  make  our  own ;  but  this  cannot  be  secured 
without  we  reach  all  the  various  classes  of  society.  The 
Press,  the  Pulpit,  the  Bench,  the  Bar,  the  Merchant,  the  Me- 
chanic, the  Laborer,  and  the  Gentlemen — who  include  the 
rest — must  all  be  brought  to  subscribe  to  the  doctrine  of  the 
Pledge.  Every  pursuit  and  profession  must  wear  the  badge 
of  temperance.  Then,  and  not  till  then,  when  we  have  made 
the  Pledge  of  Abstinence  the  only  current  certificate  of  cha- 
racter, which  like  gold  will  pass  throughout  the  world,  Public 
Opinion  and  Victory  will  be  ours.  He  who  cannot  show  the 
coin  stamped  in  the  national  mint,  will  find  himself  obliged  to 
beg  or  begone !  and  those  who  seek  to  live  by  counterfeiting, 
will  learn  that  "some  things  can  not  be  done  as  well  as 
others." 

When  we  shall  have  thus  purified  the  public  heart,  and 
made  it  beat  in  unison  with  our  own,  what  a  day  of  rejoicing 
— what  a  jubilee  there  will  be  in  Heaven  as  well  as  on  Earth! 
When  the  last  drunkard  shall  dash  away  his  cup,  and  sign  the 
Pledge  of  Freedom,  then  old  Earth  shall  rise  refreshed,  re- 
newed, and  become  a  paradise  again.  Man  shall  no  longer 
slay  his  fellow  for  gold,  or  lay  traps  for  his  fall,  but  hand  in 
hand,  heart  to  heart,  they  shall  walk  the  earth  as  brothers,  and 
make  war  no  more ! 


210  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 


WHAT  ARE  YOU  GOOD  FOR?" 


BY   B.    E.    BAELOW. 


Perhaps  the  young  man  who  reads  this  will  think  the  above 
question  silly  in  this  connection,  but  let  us  see  whether  it  is 
not  suggestive  of  some  profitable  reflections,  and  may  not  be 
made  to  yield  some  advantage  to  those  who  are  willing  to 
consider  it  for  themselves.  What  are  you  good  for  ?  "  Why  to 
be  a  statesman  or  a  general,  to  be  sure  !  Was  not  Benjamin 
Franklin  a  printer's  devil  once  ?  was  not  Roger  Sherman  a 
shoemaker  ?  and  are  there  not  hosts  of  names  belonging  to  the 
illustrious  among  men,  that  have  risen  from  the  beclouded  ho- 
rizon of  humble  mechanical  pursuits  ?  One  of  the  men  of  the 
present  day,  who  holds  a  prominent  position  in  the  political 
circles  of  this  country,  was  once  a  poor  wandering  Vermont 
boy,  driven  by  necessity  to  seek  in  the  wide  world  a  livelihood, 
at  an  age  when  other  children  are  in  the  leading-strings  of 
careful  mammas,  and  through  many  years  of  careful,  hard-work- 
ing starvation  as  a  journeyman,  has  finally  arrived  at  a  high 
position,  and  profitable  withal ;  and  why  may  not  I  be  a  philo- 
sopher, a  statesman,  a  general,  like  Old  Zack, or  an  editor?  I 
am  good  for  any  of  these  posts  only  put  me  in  either  position." 
But  the  question  is,  What  are  you  good  for  now  ?  not,  what 
will,  or  would,  or  might  you  be  good  for  if  you  were  any  thing 
or  any  body  beside  yourself,  or  in  different  circumstances. 
Now,  to-day,  you  have  a  part  to  perform;  and  whether  it 
be  your  destiny  to  draw  lightning  from  the  clouds,  or  stand 
before  kings  as  their  equal,  or  to  stick  types  as  a  '  jour'  printer, 
it  is  equally  important  for  you  to  determine  what  your  talents 
or  education,  or  sphere  in  life,  make  it  imperative  upon  you  to 
perform.  Benjamin  Franklin  was  the  most  accomplished 
printer  of  his  time  ;  not  merely  a  printer  because  he  could  not 
be  any  thing  higher,  but  while  he  followed  his  trade  he  gloried 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  211 

in  the  reputation  of  a  thorough  workman, — "  what  was  worth 
doing  at  all  was  worth  doing  well."  If  he,  or  such  as  he,  had 
been  a  boot-black,  my  word  for  it,  he  would  have  been  the 
best  boot-black  in  town.  He  was  undoubtedly  ambitious,  anx- 
ious to  excel ;  but  it  seems  equally  certain  he  desired  all  the 
credit  of  his  attainments.  When  he  rose  to  the  position  of  a 
philosopher,  it  was  not  merely  because  men  then  for  the  first 
time  discovered  the  inherent  qualities  of  the  man,  but  because 
the  man  himself  had  by  patient  toil  worked  up  the  material  of 
his  intellect,  and  caused  it  to  stand  up  by  its  own  strength  in 
the  sight  of  men.  No  doubt  he  was  as  much  surprised  as  any 
at  his  own  discoveries  and  advancement,  and  he  rejoiced  at 
the  success  of  his  exertions  physical  at  the  press,  and  mental 
by  the  midnight  lamp,  because  it  taught  the  great  philosophical 
truth,  that  steady  application  and  repeated  effort  will  accom- 
plish wonderful  results  in  any  and  every  pursuit  in  life ;  and 
that  there  is  no  greater  luxury  in  life  than  the  consciousness 
that  we  are  not  indebted  to  man  for  the  reputation  or  means 
we  may  enjoy.  These  general  truths  will  apply  to  the  circum- 
stances of  every  "  self-made  man." 

But  notwithstanding  in  the  course  of  a  long  life  of  constant 
study,  other  and  higher  intellectual  powers  are  developed,  at 
the  time  when  young  men  step  upon  the  stage  of  active  life, 
there  is  a  peculiar  course  or  pursuit  to  which  their  education 
or  propensities  lead  them.  Some  naturally  select  a  mechanical 
pursuit,  and  enter  upon  it  "  in  the  love  of  it,"  whether  to  build 
churches,  manufacture  steamboats,  or  spell  out  other  men's 
manuscripts,  and  very  soon  they  learn,  or  ought  to  learn,  whe- 
ther they  are  adapted  for  the  work.  Generally  the  first  selec- 
tion is  the  best,  and  if  persevered  in  results  happily  for  the  one  ' 
most  interested.  "  Second  sober  thoughts"  as  to  the  choice  of; 
another  trade  are  not  always  correct.  Well,  a  trade  is  select- 
ed— now  what  are  you  good  for  ? — not  with  the  idea  of  giving 
up  mechanics  for  law,  physic,  or  divinity,  but,  how  much  of 
all  these  branches  of  knowledge  can  you  acquire  and  make 
available?  A  man  in  the  West,  who  during  the  day  sawed  and 
planed  boards,  and  by  the  light  of  a  pine  knot  at  night  studied 
Blackstone,  turning  over  the  leaves  with  his  bruised  and  stub- 
by fingers,  ere  long  astonished  the  learned  doctors  of  the  law 


212  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

by  his  legal  acumen,  and  swayed  the  minds  of  court  and  jury 
by  his  eloquence.  He  was  "good  for  something,"  and  he 
proved  it,  even  while  he  sawed  boards  for  a  living.  If  a  poor 
man  has  talents  which  by  cultivation  may  enable  him  to  com- 
mand a  high  position  among  men,  he  is  certainly  none  the 
worse  off,  for  having  a  trade  upon  which  to  rely  for  support, 
while  he  uses  the  time  not  necessarily  employed  in  feeding  the 
body,  in  educating  the  mind.  Nay,  the  contrary  is  the  fact. 
Many  instances  can  be  cited  to  show,  that  if  any  situation  is  a 
favorable  one,  the  tradesman  is  in  that.  To  work  with  the 
hand  even  at  tent-making,  is  better  than  to  be  dependent,  for 
which  we  have  the  highest  authority.  Poor  students,  must 
teach,  farm,  work  at  a  trade,  be  errand  boys,  beg,  or  starve, — the 
choice  is  kindly  left  to  themselves.  A  journeyman  may  be  a 
student,  but  need  not  be  a  poor  one.  A  case  in  point. 

My  friend  F ,  was  a  man  of  kind  and  endearing  quali- 
ties— well  educated,  and  of  strict  morality.  He  conceived  he 
possessed  talents  fit  for  a  lawyer,  and  he  resolved  that  a  law- 
yer he  would  be,  and  hoped  to  realize  the  pleasing,  and  to  his 
mind  moderate,  anticipations  of  success.  Certainly  he  did  not 
expect  to  "  lead  the  bar"  immediately,  nor  to  outstrip  all  the 
young  aspirants  for  legal  fame,  who  entered  with  himself  the 
lists  of  law.  He  built  no  castles  in  the  air,  founded  upon  the 
success  he  was  sure  to  meet.  He  had  heard  and  believed  that 
in  this  great  city,  a  young  man  of  strict  integrity  and  steady 
industry  must  finally  succeed,  and  he  believed  he  possessed  the 
first,  and  intended  to  practise  the  last,  of  these  two  cardinal 
virtues.  He  had  friends,  many  of  them,  and  their  promises  of 
patronage  assured  his  heart  in  the  plans  he  formed.  He  had 
relatives,  and  he  counted  upon  their  countenance  and  support. 
It  seemed  that  all  the  circumstances  by  which  he  was  sur- 
rounded favored  his  choice,  and  it  would  hardly  be  wise  to  ne- 
glect so  fair  an  opportunity  to  secure  to  himself  a  place  and 
name  among  men,  by  the  exercise  of  the  talents  with  which  he 
had  been  endowed  by  his  Creator.  Suffice  it,  he  was  admitted, 
and  styled  himself  "Attorney  and  Counsellor  at  Law." 

Some  three  years  after  this  event  I  became   acquainted 

with  F .     He  still  clung  to  his  profession,  though  I  soon 

learned  that  it  produced  him  but  a  precarious  support.     For 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  213 

many  months  he  had  consoled  himself  in  his  unemployed  hours, 
and  days,  and  weeks,  by  the  consideration  that  a  reputation  and 
a  profitable  business  were  not  the  creation  of  a  year,  or  two,  or 
three,  and  by  a  diligent  application  to  his  books  sought  to  pass 
the  time  of  probation,  tie  succeeded  in  the  latter  undertak- 
ing too  successfully,  for  he  had  testimony  unimpeachable  that 
his  expenses  exceeded  by  far  his  income  ;  and  as  he  ran  his  eye 
over  the  expense  account  on  the  one  side,  and  the  bills  receiv- 
able on  the  other,  he  was  compelled  to  feel  that  his  profession 
would  not  satisfy  his  wants  without  a  practice  corresponding. 
He  hoped  and  strove,  as  far  as  his  situation  permitted.  Law, 
litigation  I  should  say,  is  not,  with  the  mass  of  men,  a  thing  of 
actual  necessity,  and  legal  abilities  may  not  be  forced  upon  a 
market  like  the  handiwork  of  the  mechanic.  While  the  latter 
is  certain  to  dispose  of  his  wares,  and  meets  a  speedy  return 
for  his  outlay,  the  legal  gentleman,  with  perhaps  greater  will- 
ingness to  labor  in  his  profession,  must  of  necessity  wait  until 
an  unfortunate  circumstance  in  other  men's  affairs  shall  make 
his  assistance  necessary.  Is  it  a  matter  of  surprise  that "  hope 
deferred"  should  often  have  its  natural  effect,  and  that  many 
are  hurried  away  by  despair  from  a  world,  where,  by  a  more 
proper  estimate  of  powers  and  a  lowlier  ambition,  they  might 
have  long  lived  to  be  happy  and  useful  ? 

Besides  pecuniary  difficulties,  my  friend  had  a  heart,  and 
there  was  a  gentle  being  whose  image  was  daguerreotyped 

therein.     If  F looked  forward,  Hope  held  up  her  mirror  in 

which  he  saw  the  picture  of  prosperity  and  peace,  and  a  life  of 
happiness  with  the  object  of  his  affections,  while  every  point  in 
the  surrounding  landscape  was  softened  in  the  mellow  light  of 
love.  If  he  looked  back,  he  saw  no  cheering  token  upon 
which  to  found  his  calculations  for  the  future,  while  the  pre- 
sent scarce  allowed  existence  to  hope.  Years  had  elapsed 
since  their  betrothal,  even  before  he  had  passed  the  ordeal,  and 
been  licensed  to  practice. .  Then,  they  had  looked  forward  to 
that  period  as  the  time  of  their  union,  but  that  time  had  come 
and  gone  long  since,  and  still,  as  an  honest  man,  he  could  not 
risk  her  happiness  by  urging  their  union  under  his  circum- 
stances. Ye  who  have  felt,  like  him,  may  realize  his  anxious 


214  THE 

expectation  and  heaviness  of  heart  as  weeks  passed  into 
months,  and  he  could  count  years  of  hoping. 

Unfortunately  his  associates  were  young  men  accustomed 
to  the  society  of  the  wealthy,  and  practising  some  of  the  vices 
of  young  men  of  leisure  and  affluence.  The  wine  cup  was  no 
stranger,  and  was  not,  seemingly,  an  enemy  to  them.  Unfortu- 
nately, I  say,  for  F ,  these  habits  were  not  deemed  disgrace- 
ful, but  on  the  contrary  evidences  of  gentility.  His  latterly 
anxious  mind  readily  received  the  proffered  cup,  as  a  solace 
and  relief  from  the  effects  of  anxious  care.  He  did  not  drink 
wine  to  drown  his  care,  but  the  fact  that  it  relieved  the  pres- 
sure for  the  time,  seemed  to  him  no  argument  why  he  should 
not  comply  with  the  invitations  of  his  friends,  and  fall  in  with 
the  general  practice  of  society.  But  the  enemy  once  admit- 
ted, made  fearful  havoc  upon  mind  and  intellect,  and  soon  from 
being  an  occasional  visitor,  became  a  master  and  a  tyrant. 
It  seemed  that  the  very  anxiety  to  succeed  and  accomplish 
the  dearest  purpose  of  his  heart,  drove  him  for  relief  to  that 
which  destroyed  the  only  chance  of  success.  It  was  too  late 
when  perceived  by  his  friends,  that  the  passion  for  drink  had 
the  mastery  of  him  ;  and  then  in  vain  they  strove  to  destroy 
the  devil  they  had  unintentionally  nursed  in  the  breast  of  their 
friend.  Even  the  kind  entreaties  of  her  who  seemed  dearer  to 
him  than  life,  were  powerless  for  any  length  of  time.  Though 
she  should  succeed  in  rescuing  him  for  a  time  from  his  foe,  he 
would  be  drawn  or  forced  back  into  bondage,  seemingly  more 
helpless  than  before. 

But  why  extend  ?  Poor  F was  found  at  last  in  his  room 

senseless  on  the  floor,  where  he  had  fallen  on  his  return  the 
evening  before,  in  a  state  of  intoxication.  He  lingered  a  day 
or  two  and  died  of  epilepsy,  as  reported  by  the  attending  phy- 
sician. A  sad  instance  of  the  effect  of  disappointed  ambition, 
through  misdirected  abilities!  When  I  saw  him  among  his 
associates,  a  leader  in  pleasant  enjoyment,  and  heard  the  dis- 
course of  scenes  of  intellectual  encounter,  and  thrilling  anec- 
dotes of  professional  men,  I  was  tempted  to  lay  aside  my  trade, 
or  at  least  to  wish  that  I  too  were  a  lawyer,  or  something  be- 
side a  practical  mechanic.  Poor  F !  you  are  gone  to  the 

land  where  the  question  is  never  asked  "  What  was  your  call- 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  215 

ing  in  the  world  from  which  you  came  ?"  No  names,  no 
wealth,  no  power  follows  man  there,  nought  but  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  actions  which  filled  up  the  life,  and  the  principles 
which  governed  while  on  the  stage  of  existence. 

What  am  I  good  for  ? — Is  not  this  an  important  question  ? 
Am  I  endowed  with  reason,  speech,  and  all  my  senses  to  make 
money, — which  seems  to  be  the  principal  end  to  be  attained  in 
the  choice  of  a  business  ?  Are  there  no  greater  treasures  to 
be  sought  and  attained  than  the  possession  of  a  few  dollars  ? — 
"  Yes,"  it  may  be  said,  "  there  is  glory,  as  a  soldier,  statesman, 
or  as  the  occupant  of  any  high  and  world-seen  position!" 
But  this  cannot  be  attained  by  all ;  the  very  scarcity  of  such 
reputation  gives  the  estimation  which  is  awarded  to  it.  There 
is  a  sphere  in  which  each  may  act  the  part  that  will  be  useful 
and  honorable  to  himself,  and  those  who  have  acquired  a 
trade  by  which  their  immediate  wants  are  supplied,  may 
realize  the  height  of  happiness  in  the  fulfilment  of  the  duties 
and  the  use  of  the  privileges  which  surround  them.  Look 
around,  and  not  one  man  can  be  found  who  has  it  not  in  his 
power  to  enjoy  the  greatest  wealth  the  world  can  afford ; 
none  so  humble  but  he  may  be  looked  up  to  as  a  benefactor, 
and  possess  within  himself  the  most  unfailing  fund  of  self- 
gratification.  You  may  give  your  money,  and  the  gift  shall 
leave  a  void  behind;  but  strive  by  word  and  action  to  inspire  in 
others  a  spirit  of  confidence  and  kind  regard  for  their  fellows, 
and  you  impart  that  which  enriches  them,  and  repays  into  your 
own  bosom  more  than  the  benevolence  which  prompted  your 
acts.  This, — to  do  good  to  man, — is  the  grand  principle  of 
success  and  an  honorable  reputation.  Napoleon  may  have  been 
feared  and  dreaded,  and  his  fame  shall  be  imperishable,  but  what 
point  in  his  character  shall  excite  an  equally  universal  affec- 
tion?— what  benefit  flowed  from  his  career  upon  earth,  unless 
incidentally,  not  necessarily  from  the  principles  of  his  actions? 
But  from  the  host  of  men  who  have  illustrated  the  benevolent 
principles  of  Christianity  take  one  name,  that  of  Howard,  and 
what  heart  so  hard  as  not  to  beat  in  admiration  of  him,  and 
approve  the  spirit  which  led  him  on  in  his  career  of  mercy  and 
good- will ;  and  while  the  great  commander  is  commemorated 
by  statues  of  brass  and  marble,  which  tell  of  martial  deeds, 


216  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

and  a  world  in  uproar,  the  philanthropist  is  enshrined  in  the 
hearts  of  all  mankind,  and  the  mention  of  his  name  touches  a 
chord  which  vibrates  harmoniously  through  a  world  of  hearts, 
liable,  by  the  tenure  of  their  existence,  to  sorrow  and  distress. 
What  are  you  good  for? — Surely,  you  do  not  intend 
merely  to  labor,  eat,  sleep,  and  die!  The  poorest  drudge, 
that  has  been  endowed  only  with  instinct,  will  do  that.  Will 
you  remain  inactive  until  some  fortuitous  circumstance  shall 
"  make"  you  a  man  ? — he  is  but  a  sorry  man  who  is  made  so 
by  circumstance!  All  the  fortunate  occurrences  in  the  history 
of  the  world  might  cluster  around  a  sluggard,  and  he  would 
never  be  aught  but  a  sluggard,  while  misfortunes,  in  the 
experience  of  the  active  and  vigilant,  are  made  to  redound 
to  his  honor. 

"There  is  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends, 
Rough-hew  them  as  we  will" — 

no  doubt,  but  we  must  rough-hew  them.  The  broadaxe  of 
industrious  intellectual  and  physical  effort  must  clip  away  the 
score  of  ignorance  and  prejudice,  before  we  may  anticipate 
the  polish  and  beauty  of  a  complete  structure.  I  am  inclined 
to  believe  that  accident  has  very  little  to  do  in  the  advance- 
ment of  man  in  the  scale  of  influence  and  fitness  for  useful- 
ness. There  is  no  fatality  in  birth  or  occupation,  which 
decreeing  one  man  to  reign,  dooms  another  to  hopeless  ser- 
vitude. From  the  child  of  a  day,  onward  through  life,  the 
talents  with  which  all  are  endowed  by  their  Creator  are 
developed  by  untiring  effort.  He  that  waits  for  nature, 
unassisted,  to  make  him  a  perfect  man  in  performance,  will  die 
a  child  at  an  hundred  years.  Gray  hair  will  come  ere  he  has 
learned  to  be  useful.  What  is  the  substance  and  summing  up 
of  that  which  has  here  been  written  ?  It  is  this.  That  he  who 
in  youth  may  be  compelled  to  smuggle  his  juvenile  production 
before  the  world,  is  by  that  anonymous  effort  laying  the  foun- 
dation for  future  greatness,  whose  corner-stone  alone  will  far 
excel  the  life-labor  of  him  who  in  indecision,  and  waste  of 
time,  trusts  to  the  future  to  give  him  what  he  now  wants  the 
energy  to  deserve.  Therefore,  "  What  are  you  good  for  ?" 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  217 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  CHRIST. 


BY   N.    P.    WILLIS. 


It  was  a  green  spot  in  the  wilderness, 
Touch'd  by  the  river  Jordan.     The  dark  pine 
Never  had  dropp'd  its  tassels  on  the  moss 
Tufting  the  leaning  bank,  nor  on  the  grass 
Of  the  broad  circle  stretching  evenly 
To  the  straight  larches,  had  a  heavier  foot 
Than  the  wild  heron's  trodden.     Softly  in 
Through  a  long  aisle  of  willows,  dim  and  cool, 
Stole  the  clear  waters  with  their  muffled  feet, 
And  hushing  as  they  spread  into  the  light, 
Circled  the  edges  of  the  pebbled  tank 
Slowly,  then  rippled  through  the  woods  away. 
Hither  had  come  th'  Apostle  of  the  wild, 
Winding  the  river's  course.     'Twas  near  the  flush 
Of  eve,  and,  with  a  multitude  around, 
Who  from  the  cities  had  come  out  to  hear, 
He  stood  breast  high  amid  the  running  stream, 
Baptizing  as  the  Spirit  gave  him  power. 
His  simple  raiment  was  of  camel's  hair, 
A  leathern  girdle  close  about  his  loins, 
His  beard  unshorn,  and  for  his  daily  meat 
The  locust  and  wild  honey  of  the  wood — 
But  like  the  face  of  Moses  on  the  mount 
Shone  his  rapt  countenance,  and  in  his  eye 
Burned  the  mild  fire  of  love.     As  he  spoke 
The  ear  lean'd  to  him,  and  persuasion  swift 
To  the  chain'd  spirit  of  the  listener  stole. 
Silent  upon  the  green  and  sloping  bank 
The  people  sat,  and  while  the  leaves  were  shook 
With  the  birds  dropping  early  to  their  nests, 
And  the  gray  eve  came  on,  within  their  hearts 
They  mus'd  if  he  were  Christ.    The  rippling  stream 
Still  turned  its  silver  courses  from  his  breast 
As  he  divined  their  thought.    "  I  but  baptize," 
He  said,  u  with  water ;  but  there  cometh  One 
The  latchet  of  whose  shoes  I  may  not  dare 
26 


218  THE 


Ev'n  to  unloose.    He  will  baptize  with  fire 
And  with  the  Holy  Ghost."    And  lo !  while  yet 
The  words  were  on  his  lips,  he  rais'd  his  eyes, 
And  on  the  bank  stood  Jesus.    He  had  laid 
His  raiment  off,  and  with  his  loins  alone 
Girt  with  a  mantle,  and  his  perfect  limbs, 
In  their  angelic  slightness,  meek  and  bare, 
He  waited  to  go  in.     But  John  forbade, 
And  hurried  to  his  feet  and  stay'd  him  there, 
And  said,  "  Nay,  Master !  I  have  need  of  thine, 
Not  thou  of  mine  /"     And  Jesus,  with  a  smile 
Of  heavenly  sadness,  met  his  earnest  looks, 
And  answered,  "  Suffer  it  to  be  so  now ; 
For  thus  it  doth  become  me  to  fulfil 
All  righteousness."    And  leaning  to  the  stream, 
He  took  around  him  the  Apostle's  arm 
And  drew  him  gently  to  the  midst. 

The  wood 

Was  thick  with  the  dim  twilight  as  they  came 
Up  from  the  water.    With  his  clasped  hands 
Laid  on  his  breast  th'  Apostle  silently 
Followed  his  Master's  steps — when  lo !  a  light, 
Bright  as  the  tenfold  glory  of  the  sun, 
Yet  lambent  as  the  softly  burning  stars, 
Enveloped  them,  and  from  the  heavens  away 
Parted  the  dim  blue  ether  like  a  veil ; 
And  as  a  voice,  fearful  exceedingly, 
Broke  from  the  midst,  "  THIS  is  MY  MUCH  LOV'D  SUN 
IN  WHOM  I  AM  WELL  PLEASED,"  a  snow-white  dove, 
Floating  upon  its  wings,  descended  through, 
And  shedding  a  swift  music  from  its  plumes, 
Circled,  and  flutter'd  to  the  Saviour's  breast. 


THE  JOUR.  PRINTER. — A  man  of  many  professions ; — like 
the  lawyer,  he  feels  the  advantage  of  a  good  case ;  like  the 
doctor,  from  his  practice  is  his  gain ;  like  the  parson,  he 
zealously  seeks  for  errors  and  corrects  them ;  like  the  poet,  he 
dwells  amid  types ;  like  the  military  chieftain,  he  marshals  his 
thousands ; — a  man  of  great  craft, — and  no  wonder,  when  the 
devil  helps  him. 


219 


ADDRESS, 


DELIVERED    AT  THE   PRINTERS'   FESTIVAL,  BOSTON, 
APRIL    14,   1849. 

-.:•"•' 

BY   B.    PEELEY   POOEE. 


"  Our  History  and  Name  !"  The  archives  of  Europe  con- 
tain many  a  record  which  proves  the  high  social  position  of 
Operative  Printers  in  the  olden  time — a  rich  inheritance, 
which  their  successors  should  endeavor  to  regain,  with  that 
time-honored  appellation — THE  PRESS, — of  which  they  have 
been  despoiled ! 

Not  very  many  months  have  passed  away,  since  I  was  a 
wanderer  on  the  vine-wreathed  hills  which  enshrine  the 
picturesque  and  beautiful  Rhine,  and  visited,  with  feelings  of 
peculiar  interest,  the  quaint  old  house  in  the  city  of  Mayence, 
whence,  in  the  year  1457,  issued  the  first  complete  printed 
book,  from  the  press  of  Johannes  Faust  and  Pierre  Schoeffer. 
And  hard  by — in  the  spacious  market-place,  I  saw  the  bronze 
statue  of  Johannes  Gutenburg,  the  inventor  of  movable  types, 
and  the  father  of  the  art  which  has  made  man  immortal.  It  is 
of  bronze,  from  a  model  by  Thorwaldsen,  and  stands  on  a  red 
marble  pedestal  ornamented  with  inscriptions  and  bas-reliefs, 
one  of  them  in  honor  of  the  craft  on  our  continent.  The  cos- 
tume is  historic  !  There  stands  the  illuminator  of  the  mind, 
animated  apparently  by  a  sort  of  mysterious  impulse.  His 
movable  types  are  grasped  in  his  right  hand — his  right  foot 
is  advanced,  as  if  to  mark  a  sudden  step  in  human  progress — 
a  proud  expression  of  joy  beams  from  every  lineament  of  his 
noble  face — and  a  spectator  can  almost  hear  his  bronze  lips 
re-echo  the  Divine  command  :  "  Let  there  be  light !" 

And  there  was  Light !  Such  is  the  graven  legend  on  the 
sheet  which  the  statue  holds  in  its  left  hand,  fresh,  as  it  were, 


220  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

from  the  press  at  its  side — the  commencement  of  a  "full 
token"  of  benefits  which  Printing  has  conferred  upon  huma- 
nity. That  discovery  of  Johannes  Gutenburg's  was  the  key- 
stone in  the  arch  of  civilization,  which  shines  like  a  rainbow 
of  promise  over  the  pathway  of  life,  and  whose  brightness,  like 
that  of  the  sacred  fires  of  Vesta,  cannot  be  dimmed.  Meteor- 
like  rays  of  truth  went  out  from  that  press  at  Mayence,  to 
awake  Christendom  from  an  inglorious  slumber,  and  their 
dazzling  radiance  shone  into  the  dark  recesses  of  feudal  op- 
pression, lighting  up  the  hearts  of  the  vassals  with  hope — 
melting  the  chains  which  had  fettered  the  freedom  of  opinion 
— blunting  the  edge  of  persecution's  sword,  and  nerving  the 
arms  of  the  oppressed  people  with  Liberty's  dauntless  spirit. 

"  Lord  !  taught  by  thee,  when  Printers  bade 

Their  silent  words  forever  speak  ; 
A  grave  for  Tyrants  then  was  made, 

Then  cracked  each  chain  which  yet  shall  break." 

The  Troubadours  re-strung  their  lyres  to  sing  the  heroic 
odes  "  worked  off"  in  the  old  black  letter — Luther  and  Me- 
lancthon  found  in  the  printed  Bible  a  mighty  ally,  whose 
flaming  sword  drove  off  their  oppressors,  while  from  it  the 
light  of  revealed  truth  shone  on  the  blindness  of  the  masses — 
great  and  wonderful  improvements  in  Mechanics  were  chroni- 
cled, and,  being  known,  were  perfected — Europe  read  with  avi- 
dity of  the  discoveries  made  by  Columbus  of  the  lands  whereof 
Plato  and  Seneca  had  spoken,  far  to  the  Westward  beyond 
the  "  Pillars  of  Hercules  " — the  calculations  of  Galileo  guided 
other  astronomers  in  fixing  upon  earth  the  laws  which  rule 
the  firmament  of  Heaven — the  philosophers  of  Greece  and  the 
heroes  of  Rome  were  called  from  their  tombs,  as  it  were,  to 
improve  and  instruct  succeeding  generations,  who  found  in 
printed  books  the  once  locked-up  treasures  of  universal  an- 
tiquity. Indeed,  it  may  be  said  that  the  clang  of  the  first 
press  brought  Minerva  from  the  cloistered  halls  where  she  had 
remained  in  monkish  seclusion,  to  cultivate  the  mental  faculties 
of  the  masses  and  to  elevate  their  tastes.  And  the  "  ribs  "  of 
that  press  were  thus  a  commencement  of  the  railway  of  in- 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  221 

tellect,  upon  which  so  many  richly  loaded  "  beds  "  are  now 
hurried  by  the  giant  power  of  steam.  High  were  the  honors, 
my  friends,  paid  to  Printing  in  those  palmy  days  of  its  infancy. 

And  Printers,  then,  were  honored  as  well  as  honorable 
men.  Frederic  the  Third  of  Germany  granted  an  armorial 
bearing  to  the  "  Typothetae,"  and  it  was  the  right  of  the 
members,  by  virtue  of  a  clause  added  to  the  sumptuary  laws 
of  those  days,  to  wear  gold  and  silver  jewels,  and  the  furred 
robe,  and  the  slashed  doublet,  and  the  sword.  No  man  was 
taught  the  "  art  and  mystery  "  who  was  not  well  versed  in  his 
vernacular  tongue,  and  most  Printers  were  so  distinguished  for 
their  scholastic  attainments,  that  the  fraternity  occupied  a 
prominent  place  in  the  Republic  of  Letters. 

We  find  that  Ulric  Geering  was  honored  with  the  especial 
favor  of  Louis  the  Eleventh  of  France,  and  that  he  received 
from  the  famous  College  of  the  Sorbonne  at  Paris  the  "  privi- 
leges of  hospitality" — that  is,  apartments  in  their  spacious 
edifice,  and  a  seat  at  the  table  of  the  learned  Doctors  of  the 
Law  and  of  Divinity.  Robert  Etienne  was  the  favorite  of 
Francis  the  First,  who  used  to  pay  frequent  visits  to  his  com- 
posing-room, and  gave  him  a  "  font "  of  Pica,  the  matrices  of 
which  are  now  at  the  Royal  Printing  Office  in  Paris.  Nor 
could  the  gallant  monarch  have  found  a  more  learned  man 
among  his  subjects  than  this  same  Printer  Etienne !  He  was  not 
only  profoundly  versed  in  Latin,  Greek  and  Hebrew  himself, 
but,  marrying  the  daughter  of  Ascencius  the  Printer,  Petro- 
nella,  who  was  a  woman  of  rare  talents,  Etienne  had  no  other 
language  spoken  in  his  household  save  that  in  which  was  the 
work  then  on  his  press — whether  it  was  Latin,  Greek,  or  the 
French  mother  tongue. 

L'Hopital,  the  model  magistrate  of  France,  formed  the 
Printers  of  Paris  into  a  community  or  Union,  and  in  1618 
they  obtained  Letters  Patent  from  Louis  the  Thirteenth,  who 
had  such  a  love  for  the  art  that  he  established  an  amateur 
printing-office  in  his  palace  at  St.  Germain.  Here,  over  a 
century  afterwards,  the  Prince  Royal,  heir  to  the  throne  of 
St.  Louis,  printed  a  small  work  called  "  Moral  and  Political 
Maxims,"  copies  of  which  he  preserved  with  great  care. 
When  called  to  the  throne,  he  used  to  give  them  occasionally 


222  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

to  his  favorites,  and  presented  one  to  Benjamin  Franklin, 
when  that  brother  typo  came  as  ambassador  to  his  court. 
Little  thought  Louis  the  Sixteenth,  as  he  "imposed''  that 
work  in  his  boyhood,  that  in  after  years  he  would  be  beheaded 
for  "  errors  "  in  the  "  royal  form  "  of  government  which  he 
sought  to  "  impose  "  upon  his  "  coinless  "  people. 

The  history  of  England  tells  us  that  Edward  the  Fourth, 
when  driven  to  the  Duke  of  Burgundy's  court  to  seek  succor 
against  the  rebellious  Earl  of  Warwick,  was  on  the  most 
intimate  terms  with  one  Master  Caxton,  who,  from  an  Ambas- 
sador Plenipotentiary,  rose  to  be  a  Printer.  Ferdinand  the 
Third,  King  of  Naples,  received  Sixtus  Russinger  as  his  guest 
when  that  revered  Printer  carried  a  press  from  Germany  to 
the  volcanic  metropolis,  and  learning  that  it  was  his  intention 
to  return  home  after  having  set  it  in  operation,  he  offered  him 
a  noble  bishopric  and  other  honors  if  he  would  remain.  And 
elsewhere  too,  were  Printers  treated  with  the  deference  the 
importance  of  their  calling  demanded.  In  Venice,  which  was 
then  the  proud  bridegroom  of  the  Adriatic  —  in  Germany, 
where  the  Teutonic  rule  was  all  powerful — in  those  commercial 
marts  where  the  wealthy  burghers  of  Holland  hoarded  their 
gains — and  in  the  Gothic  belfry 'd  Flemish  cities,  where  the 
germ  of  civil  liberty  first  bore  fruit — yes,  in  all  these  lands, 
and  elsewhere  throughout  Christendom,  the  Press  was  re- 
spected— Printers  were  honored.  Pleasant  are  these  recol- 
lections of  the  once  proud  position  of  the  craft — 

"  Like  a  vase  in  which  roses  have  once  been  distilled — 
You  may  break — you  may  ruin  the  vase,  if  you  will, 
But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  linger  there  still.'* 

The  fabulous  tree  of  knowledge  was  realized  in  the  Press 
of  those  days,  as  it  towered  above  other  professions  in  altitude, 
in  beauty  and  in  strength,  while  its  roots,  stretching  far  and 
wide,  extracted  all  that  was  excellent  and  nourishing  for  the 
embellishment  and  sustenance  of  its  leaves.  And  these  leaves 
afforded  nurture  for  the  infant  mind — there  the  light-hearted 
found  their  gay  carols — there  were  doctrines  disseminated  and 
laws  promulgated — there  did  science  find  a  retreat  shaded  from 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  223 

the  reflexions  cast  by  the  mirror  of  Folly — and  when  the  mailed 
hand  of  religious  persecution  was  uplifted,  those  leaves  of  the 
Press,  imprinted  with  the  Divine  word,  softened  the  agony  of 
the  martyr  for  conscience  sake,  and  mitigated  the  sufferings 
which  followed  that  memorable  epoch,  when 

— "  The  heavy  night  hung  dark, 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
As  a  band  of  Pilgrims  moored  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore." 

Others  trees  perished  or  died.  The  Village  Oak,  under 
whose  verdurous  roof  the  ale-house  gossips  drank — and  the 
Trysting  Elm,  through  whose  graceful  branches  the  moon- 
beams served  as  a  light  to  fond  lovers — were  alike  short  lived. 
The  interested  or  the  powerful  could  fell  them — the  light- 
ning's flash  or  the  storm's  fierce  blast  could  level  them — 
but  steadfast  stood  the  Tree  of  Knowledge,  and  the  people 
loved  it  well. 

Centuries  have  elapsed,  and  generations  have  passed  it  by 
— yet  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  stands  proudly  yet.  But,  my 
friends,  those  who  were  once  its  masters,  are  now  its  slaves. 
The  successors  of  Gutenburg — of  Etienne — of  Caxton — in- 
stead of  being  honored,  like  those  typographers,  because  of 
their  calling,  find  the  "  art  of  arts  "  a  sort  of  treadmill,  where 
they  toil  that  others  may  be  enriched.  And  if,  perchance, 
one  of  them  succeeds  in  mounting  to  a  fixed  position,  it  is 
said  of  him,  that  he  has  risen  from  a  printing-office.  Risen, 
fellow-craftsmen,  from  a  place  which  was  once  a  high  platform 
of  honor,  only  accessible  to  a  few. — The  Press,  the  most 
powerful  moral  machine  in  the  world,  which,  it  has  been  justly 
remarked,  "  exercises  a  greater  influence  over  the  manners  and 
opinions  of  Society  than  the  united  eloquence  of  the  Bar,  the 
Senate  and  the  Pulpit,"  is  to  a  great  extent  controlled  by  a 
class  of  Mammon's  devotees  called  publishers,  who  direct  it 
in  such  a  manner  as  to  fill  their  own  pockets,  while  the  legiti- 
mate members  of  the  craft  toil  and  slave  at  their  bidding. 

I  said  that  ,the  Press,  the  figurative  Tree  of  Knowledge, 
stands  proudly  yet.  Ay,  but  its  glories,  those  typographers  of 


•:-:-4  T«B 


the  Old  SftMQv  Whose  WOlki   have   never   been  excelled, 

gradually  dropt  from  it  like  many-hued  and  brilliant  autumnal 
leaves,  and  have  been  trodden  down  into  the  soil  beneath, 
The  present  verdure  of  the  Press  is  not  its  own,  A  parasite 
ivy,  which  of  itself  was  a  feeble  plant,  caught  the  Tree  of 
Knowledge  as  it  grew  up,  and  gradually  entwined  itself  around 
its  trunk  and  branches,  thrusting  its  myriads  of  roots  into  its 
heart,  and  extracting  aft  ill  nourishment  The  Press  itself  is 
now  but  the  huge  anatomy  of  a  strong-limbed  giant  —  a  leafless 
and  bare  tree,  enshrouded  in  the  green  and  flourishing  ivy— 
Printers  toil  and  struggle,  but  Publishers  wax  and  grow  fat, 
And  a  portion  of  them—  those  who  issue  news-sheets,  are  not 
content  with  extracting,  ivy-like,  the  fruits  of  Printers'  labor, 
but,  even  as  a  certain  animal  we  read  of  in  the  fable  endeav- 
ored to  pass  for  a  Lion,  they  call  themselves  The  IVess*  Let 
us  look  at  their  title  to  this  time-honored  appellation, 

It  has  generally  been,  asserted  that  newspapers  followed 
the  invention  of  printing,  which,  it  is  said,  was  in  a  measure 
created  that  they  might  exist—  as  we  find  the  manufacture  of 
locomotives  and  steamboats  following  dose  upon  the  invention 
of  the  regular-acting  steam  engine,  We  are  told  of  the 
Gmnttms  of  Venice,  which  took  their  name  from  the  copper 
coin  for  which  they  were  sold,  as  the  earliest  news-sheet  ;  and 
of  Monsieur  le  Docteur  Renaudot  of  Paris,  who,  finding  that 
his  oral  tales  of  the  times  were  valuable  remedial  agents,  in- 
corporated them  into  his  moferui  merftcc,  and  obtained  a  license 
from  the  Cardinal  Richelieu  to  administer  his  printed  doses 
of  gossip  once  a  week.  But  the  earliest  newspaper  in  our 
vernacular  tongue,  we  are  taught  to  ascribe  "  to  the  wisdom 
of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  the  prudence  of  Burleigh,"  when  the 
Spanish  Armada  threatened  to  conquer  the  sea-gin  Isle.  The 
«  English  Mercuric,  according  to  Disraeli,  was  originated 
in  a  wise  policy,  "  to  prevent,  during  a  moment  of  general 
anxiety,  the  danger  of  false  reports,  by  publishing  real  infor- 
mal The  first  number  bears  dale,  July  ^3,  1588,  and 

was  «  imprynted  at  London  by  her  highnesses  printer."  This, 
we  are  told,  was  the  legitimate  commencement  of  the  Press, 
The  ponderous  folios—  the  bulky  quartos  —  or  .the  respectable 
octavos,  which  had  been  published  in  abundance  by  the  fathers 


THE    FEIWTER'S    BOOK. 


of  the  art,  are  not  taken  into  consideration,  for  the  public  are 
now-a-days  expected  to  believe  that  newspapers  form  the 
actual  mental  aliment  of  the  community,  and  that  newspaper 
publishers  are  alone  to  move  the  world,  Archimedes  like,  with 
that  moral  lever  whose  fulcrum  is  the  Press. 

Now,  my  friends,  it  is  wrong  for  these  news-publishing 
gentlemen  to  assume  this  position,  for  History  shows  that  their 
trade  existed  centuries  before  Jean  Gutenburg  "locked  up" 
his  first  "  form''  at  Mayence,  although,  like  the  ivy  of  which 
I  just  now  spoke,  they  never  possessed  any  great  importance 
until  they  clung  to,  and  commenced  sucking  the  vigor  from 
the  Press. 

Plutarch  tells  us  of  the  "  Ephemerides"  of  the  Greeks— 
that  people  who,  according  to  St.  Paul,  "  spent  their  time  in 
nothing  else,  but  either  to  tell  or  to  hear  some  new  thing."  I 
have  myself  seen  the  polished  stone  tablets  erected  in  Thebes, 
whereupon  the  local-item  men  inscribed  for  their  owners, 
daily,  the  height  of  water  in  the  fertilizing  Nile  —  the  price  of 
sesame  and  of  oil  —  and  the  current  gossip  of  the  day.  These 
tablets  could  be  perused,  Herodotus  says,  by  the  lunar  pay- 
ment of  a  small  sum  —  although  that  learnd  historian  saith  not 
whether  an  extra  charge  was  made  when  such  important 
intelligence  arrived  as  the  "Destruction  of  Pharaoh  and  his 
army  in  the  Red  Sea"  —  the  "  Discovery  of  new  gold  mines  at 
Ophir,"  or  "  The  latest  news  from  the  emigrating  party  on 
their  way  to  Canaan  "  —  all  of  which  was  perhaps  received  by 
special  express,  in  advance  of  the  Royal  Egyptian  Mail. 

Frequent  mention,  too,  is  made  by  the  classic  writers,  of 
the  "  ludibria  ventes  ''  or  flying  records  written  daily  by  the 
Roman  priests  —  but  the  real  spirit  of  the  modern  newspaper 
passed  the  Rubicon,  and  arrived  in  Rome,  with  Julius  Caesar. 

The  whole  being  of  the  great  captain  "who  came,  who 
saw,  and  who  conquered,"  was  divided  between  ambition  and 
glory.  He  naturally  considered  the  latter,  earned  by  anxiety 
and  sacrifices,  as  too  ephemeral,  so  long  as  his  deeds  were  not 
recorded  ;  and,  having  a  taste  for  Literature,  Caesar  wrote  his 
Commentaries.  There  were  here,  however,  limits  to  self- 
praise,  and  the  form  of  the  record  did  not  allow  of  its  dissem- 
ination. Caesar,  therefore,  first  instituted  regular  newspapers 


226 


THE       PRINTER     S       BOOK. 


in  the  Eternal  City,  and  Suetonius  tells  us  he  decreed  that 
the  daily  acts  of  the  People,  as  well  as  of  the  Senate,  should 
be  drawn  up,  and  published.  Scribes  performed  the  labor 
that  Printers  are  now  so  ill-requited  for,  although  we  do  not 
learn  that  publishers  in  those  days  called  themselves — THE 
PEN. 

The  first  idea  of  a  newspaper,  or  to  speak  more  correctly 
a  news-papyrus,  once  started,  it  became  a  general  mania — and 
we  find  that  there  were — "  acta  populi  " — "  acta  urbis  " — and 
"actaruris."  "  Acts  of  the  people  " — "acts  of  the  city" — 
and  "  acts  of  the  country,"  sprang  up  as  we  see  legions  of 
journals  in  our  own  time — 

"  Like  bubbles  on  the  sea  of  matter  borne, 
They  rise — they  break — and  to  that  sea  return  !" 

Each  locality  and  each  class  had  its  allotted  share  of 
intelligence,  of  the  description  which  most  interested  them — 
though  History  has  not  recorded  whether  there  was  also  a 
distinction  in  price — respectable  "sixpennies"  for  the  noble 
families  of  the  patricians,  and  "  penny  "  morsels  of  papyrus  for 
plebeians,  with  "fourth  editions,"  heralding  the  latest  mail 
news  of  the  times  with  fee-like  industry,  from  the  then  infant 
colonies  in  France  and  England. 

The  publisher  "by  authority,"  in  those  days,  was  Chroestus, 
who  had  an  interview  with  Caesar  every  morning  after  he  came 
from  the  bath,  and  had  received  the  reports  of  his  civil  and 
military  officers.  There  Chroestus,  who  was  a  quick-witted 
mercurial  Greek,  took  the  note  which  his  "  organ  "  was  that 
day  to  sound.  Then  repairing  to  his  writing-room,  where  his 
scribes  were  in  waiting,  "  stick  in  hand,"  (for  their  pens  were 
reeds,)  he  "  made  up  "  his  journal,  "  displaying  "  the  news  of 
military  or  political  victories  in  large  characters,  with  more 
space  between  the  lines  than  have  the  "double-leaded  leaders" 
of  our  day — while  "  untoward  events  "  figured  in  marvellous 
confusion  and  obscurity.  Nothing  was  wanting  of  those 
supposed  "  improvements  "  of  which  modern  publishers  now 
make  such  boast — and  we  find  that  beneath  the  public  ros- 
trum, as  the  orators  succeeded  each  other,  the  subrostrani 


THE       PRINTER 


BOOK. 


227 


were  posted,  to  report  "expressly"  for  that  journal  every 
speech — long  or  short,  with  favorable  comment  or  bitter 
satire,  according  as  they  were  palatable  to  the  powers  "in 
authority,"  of  whose  tastes  Chroestus  was  an  admirable  judge. 

The  accounts  of  the  debates  at  the  Capitol  embraced  the 
acts  and  the  resolutions  of  the  Senate,  the  rescripts  of  the 
Executive,  the  reports  of  magistrates  or  committees,  the 
names  of  the  voters  (like  that  of  Thrasea  Psetus,  whose  silent 
dissent  was  watched  with  such  eagerness  by  the  provincials) 
— in  short,  they  were  of  that  perfect  and  yet  pleasant  char- 
acter which  we  find  now-a-days  in  the  Boston  Post.  Chit- 
chat for  idlers,  and  on-dits  for  scandal-mongers  were  also  to 
be  found  in  Chroestus's  columns — extracts  from  the  local 
registers  of  births,  marriages,  divorces,  deaths,  and  funerals. 
New  public  buildings  were  described — the  gladiatorial  shows 
were  duly  "puffed"  in  advance,  and  all  accidents  and  inci- 
dents were  recorded.  The  humorous  department  was  created 
at  Cesar's  particular  request,  he  giving  orders  that  Cicero's 
witty  sayings  should  be  regularly  added  to  the  other  current 
matter,  and  we  read  extracts  from  the  "  Theatrical  column," 
which  show  how  Rome  was  convulsed  by  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  partisans  of  rival  actors — their  feuds  exceeding  the  paper 
warfare  which  our  tragedians  carry  on.  The  theatrical 
factions  fought  in  the  pit ;  the  soldiers  and  their  officers,  sent 
in  to  quell  the  disturbance,  joined  in  the  battles,  and  the 
centurions  were  occasionally  slain.  Nay,  it  is  even  recorded 
in  one  "  Diarium "  that  when  "  Felix,  the  leader  of  the  red 
faction,  was  placed  on  the  funereal  pile,  one  of  his  partisans 
threw  himself  into  the  flames,  declaring  that  he  could  not 
survive  his  favorite  performer.  The  blue  faction,  piqued  at 
this  demonstration,  and  determined  to  diminish  the  triumph  of 
the  red  faction,  came  out  with  "  a  card  "  asserting  that  the 
man  was  drunk,  when  he  thus  offered  himself  up  as  a  sacrifice 
to  histrionic  devotion." 

The  Roman  journals,  like  our  own,  were  the  receptacles  of 
all  tragical  and  marvellous  occurrences,  and  it  is  from  them 
that  Pliny  derived  many  of  the  improbable  stories  inserted  in 
his  Encyclopaedia.  It  was  first  recorded  in  the  "Diarium" 
that  on  the  day  when  Cicero  defended  Milo,  there  descended 


228  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

a  shower  of  bricks  from  heaven — that  under  Augustus  a  burgh- 
er of  Paesulae  walked  to  the  Capitol  in  a  procession  formed  by 
his  own  sixty-three  descendants — that  when  a  slave  of  the  un- 
fortunate Titus  Sabinus  had  been  executed  by  Tiberius,  his 
dog  watched  the  corpse,  carried  food  to  its  mouth,  and  on  its 
being  thrown  into  the  Tiber,  swam  after  it  and  strove  to  bring 
it  to  land — and  that  in  the  reign  of  Claudius  a  phoenix  from 
Egypt  was  publicly  exhibited  in  Rome.  In  short,  the  Roman 
journalists  seemed  to  act  upon  the  principle  that  the  foibles  of 
the  foolish  form  the  stock  in  trade  of  the  shrewd,  and  when  at 
a  loss  for  news,  they  described  monsters  as  existing  upon  earth, 
and  as  many  wonders  in  the  heavens  as  afterwards  were  chro- 
nicled by  the  astrologers  of  the  middle  ages.  Sometimes,  too, 
they  awakened  some  great  personage  who  had  slighted  them, 
from  his  dignified  composure,  and  frightened  him  from  his  pro- 
priety, as  Chrcestus  did  with  regard  to  Cicero.  This  distin- 
guished writer  had  a  full  human  share  of  mortal  foibles ;  and 
huge  was  his  dudgeon,  immense  his  annoyance,  when  one  fine 
morning  that  he  had  breakfasted  upon  lampreys  and  Cyprian 
wine,  he  read  in  Chrcestus's  "  Diarium"  that — Old  Cicero  was 
dead.  History  goes  no  farther,  and  it  is  a  matter  for  specula- 
tion whether  or  not  he  "  stopped  his  paper." 

Chroestus  made  money,  or  rather  it  was  made  for  him  by 
his  scribes  and  his  editor,  for  though  he  pulled  the  wires  and 
pocketed  the  gains,  the  mind  of  his  "  Diarium"  was  its  editor, 
a  Roman  knight  called  Coelius.  Handsome,  gay,  witty,  well- 
connected — Coelius  had  a  taste  for  every  thing  which  consti- 
tutes the  attraction,  the  interest,  and  (if  I  may  use  the  expres- 
sion) the  vitality  of  a  journal.  He  had  been,  while  sowing 
his  wild  oats,  a  friend  of  Catiline,  which  led  him  into  grievous 
errors,  and  into  debts  which  forced  him  to  mortgage  his  pen 
to  Chrcestus,  but  his  "  leaders"  won  for  him  a  high  position. 
He  was  so  eloquent  an  orator  as  to  excite  the  admiration  of 
the  hypercritical  Quinctillian — Tacitus  mentions  his  aptitude 
as  a  historian — and,  many  years  afterwards,  the  all-wise  and 
excellent  Emperor  Marcus  Aurelius  was  wont  to  read  his  arti- 
cles with  special  delight.  Coelius  rose  to  be  CEdile,  Prastor  and 
Tribune  of  the  people,  though  he  was  cut  off  in  his  career  by  a 
mortal  wound  received  in  that  favorite  amusement  of  the  edi- 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  229 

tors  of  the  present  day  in  some  sections — a  street  fight.  His 
"  gossiping  articles"  were  very  much  like  some  we  now  read, 
only  that  they  were  longer,  and  that,  not  content  with  "  hesi- 
tating dislike/'  "  killing  with  faint  praise,"  and  administering 
the  reproof  of  covert  and  polished  satire,  Coelius  was  notorious- 
ly abusive.  He  prided  himself  on  his  rouerie  and  his  position 
in  good  society,  and  evidently  sought  to  make  the  "  Diarium" 
while  under  his  charge,  a  malignant  Home  Journal,  where 
would  be  found  the  Spirit  of  the  Times. 

The  Roman  journals,  though  they  opposed  individual  pre- 
tensions to  merit  and  worth,  were  always  advocates  of  "the 
Administration ;"  for  although  in  those  days  "  Post-Office  ad- 
vertising" did  not  exist,  there  was  a  plenty  of  "  government 
patronage."  The  editors  had  no  words  of  praise  sufficiently 
laudatory  and  superlative  for  the  virtues  of  Tiberius  and  Nero; 
they  loudly  demanded  that  temples  should  be  erected  to  the 
black-hearted  Domitian — they  overflowed  with  delight  and  ad- 
miration when  Caligula  sent  his  horse  to  the  Senate — and  they 
were  enthusiastic  when  Claudius  (forestalling  the  Popes,  his 
successors  in  Rome,)  canonized  his  paramour  Poppaea,  rais- 
ing her,  "per  se,"  to  the  rank  of  one  of  the  goddesses  of  Olym- 
pus, malgre  Minerva,  despite  of  Juno,  and  in  the  face  of  Ve- 
nus. 

But  surely  I  have  clearly  shown  that  news-sheets,  pub- 
lishers, and  editors,  existed  long  before  printing,  while  all 
know  that  printing  was  a  great  and  glorious  profession  before 
these  same  publishers,  ivy-like,  clung  to  it.  The  publication  of 
news  has  expanded  into  giant  proportions,  but  its  features  re- 
main unchanged.  We  find  many  a  Chroestus,  a  "  citizen  of 
credit  and  renown,"  who  invests  his  capital  in  types  and  ma- 
chinery, and  regards  the  descendants  of  the  "  Typothetse"  as 
he  does  the  laborer  who  supplies  his  steam-engine  furnace 
with  coal.  And  should  his  gains  be  diminished,  either  by  the 
want  of  tact  or  talent  displayed  in  his  columns,  he  cuts  down, 
with  the  same  avaricious  indifference,  the  wages  of  the  man 
who  uses  his  strong  arms  in  the  coal-hole,  and  of  the  men  in 
the  composing  room,  who  exercise  their  judgment,  whose  rea- 
soning powers  are  continually  in  operation,  whose  quick 
thoughts  are  chained  to  their  nimble  fingers.  Mammon  is  a 


230  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

sad  leveller,  and  knows  no  distinction,  save  the  numerative 
rank  on  the  tax-list. 

Perhaps  our  modern  Chrrestus  "  is  not  as  other  men  are," 
but  makes  his  sheet  a  high  beacon  of  light,  and  truth,  and  love, 
pure  and  holy,  regardless  of  the  position  of  those  whose  hands 
erect  it,  and  who  crouch  around  its  base.  Philanthropic  in 
his  nature,  he  would  cheerfully  join  the  "Society  for  providing 
the  negro  children  in  Cuba  with  flannel  waistcoats,"  even 
though  he  knew  that  his  own  journeymen  were  destitute  of 
clothing  in  a  New  England  winter.  Anxious  to  educate  the 
children  of  the  Hottentot,  he  knows  that  the  pale-faced  boys 
who  feed  his  presses  are  grossly  ignorant.  Profoundly  griev- 
ed at  the  existence  of  polygamy  in  the  land  of  Solomon,  he  in- 
troduces unsophisticated  country  girls  into  hot-beds  of  crime. 
An  apostle  of  temperance,  and  an  ostentatious  follower  of 
Him  who  first  proclaimed  that  "the  laborer  was  worthy  of 
his  hire,"  he  would  fain  compel  Printers  to  use  Cochituate 
from  some  neighbor's  pipe  as  their  entire  nourishment,  and 
when  they  "  ask  for  bread,  he  gives  them" — an  order  on  a  re- 
ligious book-store.  Shame  on  those  Boston  publishers,  whose 
conduct  led  to  this  record,  which  has  gone  forth  over  the 
world — "  In  the  offices  where  the  least  parade  is  mad  a  of  the 
cardinal  virtues,  journeymen  are  most  fairly  dealt  with — and 
in  those  offices  where  there  is  great  pretensions  to  sanctity,  he 
is  screwed  down  to  the  last  farthing." 

Most  of  the  successors  of  Chrcestus  have,  as  he  did,  an 
editor,  who  cudgels  his  brains  to  carry  out  their  gold-produc- 
ing schemes,  and  feeds  their  presses  with  patriotic  leaders,  or 
recommendations  of  Russia  Salve.  They  descant  upon  the 
power  and  importance  of  newspapers,  yet  how  very  few 
publishers  educate  their  sons  as  editors  !  No :  they  know 
that  it  is  an  easy  matter  to  find  some  modern  Coslius,  some 
lawyer  who  "  followed  his  profession  "  at  a  great  distance — 
some  physician,  whose  fee'd  visits  were  like  those  of  angels, 
"  few  and  far  between " — some  politician,  who  hopes  to 
receive  "  mileage  "  or  "  an  outfit " — some  unfortunate  author, 
who  does  not  find  that  national  protection  given  to  the 
coinage  of  his  thoughts,  and  the  fruit  of  his  studies,  which  is 
bestowed  upon  the  shoemaker  or  the  tailor.  Generally  "free" 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  231 

wherever  they  go,  these  gentlemen  quietly  seat  themselves  in 
their  well-cushioned  arm-chairs,  to  ply  the  scissors  and  the 
quill,  protesting  the  while  that  they  are  horribly  annoyed  by 
calls  for  "copy."  And  when  their  daily  quota  has  been 
written,  and  cut  out,  and  pasted  in  due  shape,  it  is  handed 
over  to  the  printers.  They,  poor  fellows,  must  take  good 
care  to  render  all  into  good  English,  (as  a  bear  licks  her  cubs 
into  shape,)  and  must  bear  the  blame  of  any  lapsus  penna. 
Late  into  the  night  do  they  toil,  until  their  eyes  are  dim — but 
the  modern  Coelius  and  the  modern  Chroestus  go  away  to 
their  amusements  or  families.  Yet  they  majestically  style 
themselves  THE  PRESS.  In  my  humble  opinion,  one  might  as 
well  call  Nathan  Hale  the  water  pipe — or  Moses  Kimball  the 
drop  curtain — or  Abbott  Lawrence  the  spinning  jenny — as 
to  call  a  publisher  or  an  editor,  who  is  not  a  typographer — 
THE  PRESS  ! 

Let  it  not  be  for  a  moment  inferred,  that  I  would  decry 
journalists ;  or  that — an  editor  myself — I  do  not  appreciate 
their  power ;  which,  independent  of  its  direct  action,  and  its 
immense  utility  in  the  social  relations  of  man,  and  in  the 
intercourse  of  nations,  secretly  warps  and  distorts,  or  benefi- 
cially prompts  and  guides,  the  opinions  of  nine  hundred  and 
mnty-nine  persons  out  of  each  thousand,  without  their  being 
themselves  aware  of  it.  The  newspapers  of  America  are  at 
once  an  object  of  national  pride,  and  of  foreign  admiration,  as 
(unshackled  by  the  arbitrary  dicta  of  a  censorship)  they  are 
like  the  window  which  the  old  philosopher  wished  placed  in 
his  breast,  and  show  the  palpitations  of  the  human  heart. 
The  large  "  dailies,"  whose  powerful  articles  guide  thousands 
of  partisans,  as  they  move  along  with  the  force  of  a  mighty 
river — flanked  by  dull  morasses  of  ship-news  and  price- 
currents — the  smaller  "  pennies,"  which  like  some  tiny  moun- 
tain stream,  leaping  over  the  crags,  are  bright,  and  sparkling, 
and  free — the  "weeklies,"  which  like  an  Olive  Branch  of 
wholesome  verdure,  are  waved  over  all  parties,  with  the 
quiet,  composing  effect  which  a  Museum  of  pure  literature 
always  produces ;  or  like  a  keen  Yankee  Blade,  whittle 
humors  and  fancies  from  lively  brains ;  or  with  a  steady  aim 
of  good,  shout  Excelsior  as  a  rallying  cry — all  classes,  in 


232  THE 

short,  of  the  myriads  of  journals  in  our  land,  contend  for 
the  legitimate  rights  and  welfare  of  the  people — and  their 
conductors,  like  so  many  sentinels  upon  the  watch-tower  of 
Freedom,  seek  to  uphold  the  Flag  of  our  Union,  and  to 
sustain  the  honor  and  glory  of  these  United  States.  While 
their  pens  are  unfettered,  no  historian  shall  write  "  illium 
fuit "  on  the  monument  of  the  Union. 

Universally  acknowledged  as  the  champions  of  right,  the 
guardians  of  science,  the  patrons  of  art,  and  the  advocates  of 
refinement  in  our  land ;  why  need  our  editors  call  themselves 
THE  PRESS  ?  Why  can  they  not  abandon  that  appellation  to 
Operative  Printers? 

Journalism  would  thereby  be  benefited,  for  now,  in  the 
ranks  of  the  Press,  are  an  almost  countless  and  a  motley  host, 
embracing  the  very  errand  boys  in  the  book-stores.  But  let 
editors  form  themselves  into  an  independent  profession  here, 
and  they  will  soon  acquire  the  importance  they  possess  in 
France — where  Journalism,  like  the  gigantic  bird  of  the  fable, 
envelops  and  overshadows  with  its  wings  the  land  which  with 
its  talons  it  is  constantly  ploughing  up  in  its  restlessness.  In 
"  Journalism,"  Guizot  has  found  his  first  firm  footing,  whence 
to  rise  to  that  supreme  power  which  he  so  cruelly  abused — in 
"  Journalism,"  Thiers  won  his  first  laurels — it  is  in  the  offices 
of  the  "Journalists"  that  are  created  these  French  Revo- 
lutions, which,  like  Saturn,  devour  their  own  children — and 
there  are  few  young  French  reporters,  who  do  not  indulge  in 
a  dream  of  wild  ambition,  which  dream  is  generally  realized. 
In  England,  on  the  contrary,  where  newspapers  are  the 
"  fourth  estate "  of  the  Realm,  (and  more  powerful  than  the 
other  three,)  newspaper  writers — ''  the  Press  " — are  very  low 
in  the  social  scale.  Some  successful  scribbler  may  blaze  up 
like  a  rocket,  but  he  soon  descends  like  the  blackened  stick ! 
We  never  hear  of  a  member  of  the  "  British  Press  "  at  his 
sovereign's  court ! 

Some  may  think  that  I  am  making  much  ado  about  a 
mere  term,  and  that,  even  as  "a  rose  by  any  other  name 
would  smell  as  sweet,"  Printers  need  not  stickle  for  their 
rightful  appellation.  But  in  my  humble  opinion,  this  is  an  all 
important  point.  Mankind  are  naturally  clannish,  and  ever 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  233 

animated  by  a  powerful  esprit  de  corps.  We  see  this  in  our 
religious  sects  and  in  our  public  charities — in  the  army  and  in 
the  navy — in  our  literary  and  in  our  scientific  institutions — in 
our  colors  and  in  our  nationalities.  Let  the  successors  of 
those  time-honored  Germans  who  composed  the  "  Typothetse," 
feel  that  upon  them  rests  the  proud  task  of  restoring  it,  stripped 
of  its  ivy,  to  its  natural  beauty,  and  the  old  Tree  of  Knowledge 
would  soon  become  verdant  again.  Each  Printer's  ambition 
would  be  roused — first  to  elevate  the  Press — and  secondly  to 
become  a  worthy  member  of  the  Press ;  and  ambition  is,  after 
all,  the  mainspring  of  humanity,  without  which  the  moral 
activity  of  society  would  degenerate  into  lethargy. 

Fifty  thousand  of  our  bravest  citizens,  unorganized  and  des- 
titute of  esprit  de  corps,  could  not  have  equalled  the  brave  frac- 
tion of  their  number  who  conquered  at  Buena  Vista — each  man 
animated  by  an  ambition  to  distinguish  himself!  Were  every 
able-bodied  man  in  Boston  to  rush  to  the  next  fire,  their  united 
but  unorganized  force  could  not  compete  with  the  destroying 
element  as  would  our  active  "  Department,"  in  which  each  gal- 
lant Sykesy  strives  to  maintain  the  honor  of  his  "  machine" 
and  to  claim  "  the  pipe.''  'Twas  ambition  which  attuned  the 
harp  of  Homer  to  heavenly  sounds,  strung  the  lyre  of  Horace 
with  chords  immortal,  and  made  the  ancient  cities  vocal  with 
the  lays  of  Virgil.  Even  the  ladies  are  ambitious,  and  their 
example  is  always  excellent.  Some  "  flounce  in  furbelows 
and  dress  for  fame ;"  others  are  equally  ambitious  to  shrink 
from  the  world's  gaze  in  unpretending  modesty,  the  sweetest 
flowers  that  bloom  in  beauty's  rich  parterre.  Some,  unlike 
the  maiden  in  the  song,  will  "  go  to  a  nunnery  and  pine  away 
and  die  ;"  whilst  others  seek  public  admiration  and  applause  ; 
like  Madame  Roland,  master  the  mysteries  of  politics  ;  like 
Miss  Mitchell,  discover  comets ;  like  Joan  d'Arc,  head  the  em- 
battled hosts,  and  lead  to  victory ;  or  like  Elizabeth  of  Eng- 
land, "  in  maiden  meditation,  fancy  free,"  aspire  to  empire. 
Each  has  the  honor  of  her  sex  at  heart,  and  is  ambitious  in  her 
peculiar  phase,  whether  it  be  to  adorn  a  domestic  circle,  or  to 
rule  a  realm  ;  to  dance  a  polka  or  to  "  twirl  a  distaff;"  to  flirt 
with  all,  or  reign  relentless  arbitress  of  one. 

Let  then  Printers  raise  high  the  standard  of  their  ambition, 
27 


234  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

and  build  their  hopes  of  regaining  their  ancient  position  upon 
the  Press  itself,  not  indulging  in  Utopian  ideas,  but  animated 
by  a  legitimate  esprit  de  corps.  The  young  enthusiast,  fired  by 
the  new  lights  and  the  march  of  intellect,  is  apt  to  despise  the 
past.  But  wait  awhile,  time  wears  on,  some  day  he  in  his 
turn  is  becalmed.  He  then  sees  the  impassable  horizon,  and 
feels  the  iron  grasp  of  the  finite  power  which  controls  the 
strides  of  the  would-be-giants  of  earth.  Then,  when  he  finds 
all  progress  arrested,  he  measures  backward  the  limit  of  the 
moral  range  of  man,  and  finds  through  history,  that  in  past 
epochs  our  age  was  equalled,  if  not  eclipsed  ;  and  that  nations 
so  remote  as  to  have  scarce  a  page  of  record,  have  left,  even 
on  the  desert,  and  amid  the  mountains,  works  as  superior  to 
ours  as  the  Mastodon  is  to  the  Elephant. 

And  why  cannot  the  <e  Printers'  Union"  of  Boston  com- 
mence a  revival  of  the  "  Typothetae"  of  Germany  ?  That  in- 
stitution of  the  olden  time  regulated  wages,  it  maintained  the 
dignity  of  the  craft,  and,  above  all,  it  prevented  persons  from 
obtaining  employ  as  Printers  who  had  not  served  a  complete 
apprenticeship !  A  reformation  of  the  apprentice-system  is  all 
important  for  the  reformation  of  the  Press,  and  I  hope  to  live 
to  see  the  time  when  the  sons  of  wealthy  Printers  will  again 
be  put  into  the  "  chapel,"  as  they  are  now  sent  to  universities, 
into  studios  and  into  stores.  I  hope  to  see  the  Press  so  restor- 
ed to  its  once  proud  position,  that  its  apprentices  may  become 
bright  and  shining  lights  in  the  community.  And  I  hope  that 
Printing  Offices  will  be  to  them  pleasant  places — where  they 
may  imbibe  a  love  for  the  art  which  Gutenburg  rendered  use- 
ful— respect  those  who  they  may  see  exercising  it,  and  be  well 
rewarded  for  their  mental  and  bodily  toil.  Then  we  will  find 
growing  up  in  our  midst,  craftsmen  who  will  rival  Franklin, 
or  Russell,  or  Buckingham,  or  Dickinson,  or  Greene,  or  Wil- 
lis. Then  will  the  Press  again  be  honored,  and  Printers  will 
hail  it  as  did  the  Italian  his  beloved  country — "  Esto  perpe- 
tua" — "  Be  thou  eternal." 

GENTLEMEN  OF  THE  PRINTERS'  UNION!  Consider  well 
the  amount  of  good  which  your  institution  may  effect,  and  re- 
member that  now-a-days,  mind  acts  upon  mind,  almost  with 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  235 

that  telegraphic  velocity  which  has  annihilated  time  and  space. 
In  your  labors,  prepare  to  encounter  avarice,  revenge,  envy 
and  uncharitableness,  but  you  must  rise  above  them  by  the 
elasticity  and  vigor  of  your  own  wing,  or  you  will  grovel 
for  ever  at  the  feet  of  taskmasters.  Remember  well  that  the 
Eagle,  though  strong  as  the  storm  and  swift  as  the  tempest, 
would  never  reach  the  skies  if  he  gazed  at  any  object  lower 
than  the  sun  !  You  set  out  against  the  tide — master  it,  or  it 
will  carry  you  with  it !  There  is  no  stationary  point.  The 
Press  must  advance,  or  it  will  retrocede ! 

Permit  me,  gentlemen,  in  conclusion,  to  warn  you  against 
theoretic  schemes  of  labor  and  its  reward,  which  look  perfect 
upon  paper — but  place  those  who  trust  to  them  in  the  condi- 
tion of  the  shipwrecked  philosopher.  When  the  vessel  in 
which  he  had  embarked  on  his  first  voyage  was  foundering,  in 
a  gale,  he  happened  to  remember  what  he  had  read  in  books 
about  "  anchors  of  hope,"  and  "  anchors  of  safety,"  though  he 
was  unacquainted  with  their  practical  use.  So  he  lashed  him- 
self to  the  "  best  bower,"  and  then  smiled  in  lofty  pity  at  the 
ignorance  of  the  poor  wretches,  who  persisted  in  trusting 
themselves  on  an  old-fashioned  raft.  Avoid  also  all  flourishes 
of  forcible  opposition !  Think  you  that  the  soldier  conquers 
by  the  polish  of  his  blade,  the  glitter  of  his  helmet,  or  the  suf- 
ficency  of  his  equipments  ? —  or  by  his  determined  nerve,  his 
resolute  heart,  his  proud  ambition  to  sustain  the  honor  of  his 
corps  ?  Reason  and  judgment  are  the  weapons  of  renown — 
use  them  aright,  and  you  are  as  resistless  as  the  decrees  of  des- 
tiny !  but  hide  them,  and  you  become  powerless.  Above  all, 
sacrifice  all  prejudices  at  the  shrine  of  the  Press — gather  into 
your  ranks  every  worthy  craftsman  in  this  city  and  its  vicini- 
ty, and  let  there  be  an — 

"  Union  of  the  Printers  for  the  sake  of  the  Press." 


THE  PRINTERS'  CRAFT — It  is  an  old  proverb  that  words 
fly  away,  but  facts  remain, — but  this  craft  makes  words  facts. 


236  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK 


THE    BROOK. 

BY   W.   H.   BUULEIGH. 

"  Like  thee,  oh  stream !  to  glide  in  solitude 
Noislessly  on,  reflecting  sun  or  star, 

Unseen  by  man,  and  from  the  great  world's  jar 
Kept  evermore  aloof — methinks  'twere  good 
To  live  thus  lonely  through  the  silent  lapse 

Of  my  appointed  time."    Not  wisely  said, 

Unthinking  Quietist !     The  brook  hath  sped 
Its  course  for  ages  through  the  narrow  gaps 

Of  rifted  hills  and  o'er  the  reedy  plain, 

Or  'mid  the  eternal  forests,  not  in  vain — 
The  grass  more  greenly  groweth  on  its  brink, 

And  lovelier  flowers  and  richer  fruits  are  there, 
And  of  its  crystal  waters  myriads  drink, 

That  else  would  faint  beneath  the  torrid  air. 


THE    TIMES. 

BY  W.   H.   BUELEIGH. 

Inaction  now  is  crime.    The  old  Earth  reels 
Inebriate  with  guilt ;  and  Vice,  grown  bold, 
Laughs  Innocence  to  scorn.    The  thirst  for  gold 
Hath  made  men  demons,  tiy  the  heart  that  feels 
The  impulse  of  impartial  love,  nor  kneels 
In  worship  foul  to  Mammon,  is  contemned. 
He  who  hath  kept  his  purer  faith  and  stemmed 
Corruption's  tide,  and  from  the  ruffian  heels 
Of  impious  tramplers  rescued  peril'd  Right, 
Is  called  fanatic,  and  with  scoffs  and  jeers 
Maliciously  assailed.     The  poor  man's  tears 
Are  unregarded — the  oppressor's  might 
Revered  as  law — and  he  whose  righteous  way 
Departs  from  evil,  makes  himself  a  prey. 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  237 


ADAM'S  DREAM: 

A   FANTASY. 

BY   JOHN   G.    CLAYTON. 


THE  world  was  in  its  primeval  age,  fresh  in  the  original 
beauties  of  its  creation.  Our  first  parents  had  disobeyed 
the  commands  of  their  Creator,  and  not  only  forfeited  the 
beautiful  Eden,  the  earthly  typve  of  paradise  which  had  been 
prepared  for  their  reception  by  the  bounteous  Father  of  the 
universe,  but  brought  the  penalties  of  sin,  and  sorrow,  and 
sickness,  and  of  death,  upon  themselves  and  their  as  yet 
unborn  descendants.  Still  the  threatened  evil  was  in  per- 
spective only;  sin  had  been  indulged  in;  sorrow  had  been 
felt ;  but  sickness  had  not  as  yet  enervated  the  frame,  and 
death,  a  mystery  then  as  now  unsolved,  hung  as  a  misty 
cloud  at  the  remote  period  of  existence,  rather  in  the  light  of 
something  that  veiled  another  and  a  happier  state  of  being, 
where  the  lost  Eden  should  be  recovered,  than  as  the  grim 
extinguisher  of  all  earthly  joys — the  fearful  termination  of  a 
transient  day  in  an  endless  night ! 

Evil  then  was  in  anticipation  only,  while,  as  its  counter- 
balance, the  world  in  all  its  original  freshness  was  before  the 
first  man  and  the  first  woman,  in  which  to  choose.  Turn 
whichsoever  way  they  would,  were  fields  green  with  the 
untilled  luxuriance  of  spontaneous  production.  The  golden 
wheat,  the  silver  rye,  and  the  deep-green  maize,  rustled  in  the 
breeze.  Rivers  of  crystal  purity  meandered  through  the  ver- 
dant meadows.  The  very  air  was  fragrant  with  the  perfume 
of  countless  flowers,  which  Beneficence  had  planted  to  beautify 
the  scene.  Herds  of  lowing  cattle  wandered  through  the 
lowlands ;  flocks  of  white  sheep  reposed  peacefully  beneath 
the  umbrageous  trees  ;  bands  of  agile  goats  leaped  in  playful 


238  THE 

wantonness  upon  the  rocky  uplands;  while  the  atmosphere 
itself  was  rendered  musical  by  the  rich  melody  of  feathered 
warblers,  singing  the  praise  of  Him  who  had  created  all ! 
All,  all  was  loveliness,  and  beauty,  and  harmony ;  and  as  our 
common  parents  gazed  upon  the  enchanting  scene,  they 
forgot  that  "  the  ground  was  cursed  for  their  sakes,"  and  that 
"  in  sorrow  should  they  eat  of  it  all  the  days  of  their  life  " — 
and  remembered  only  that  they  were  "  monarchs  of  all  they 
surveyed,"  and  that  the  beautiful  world  before  them  would, 
to  the  end  of  time,  be  peopled  by  their  descendants. 

The  first  week  after  the  expulsion  had  passed  away,  and 
the  sorrow  in  Adam's  breast  at  the  results  of  his  disobedience 
had  in  a  measure  abated.  He  was  standing  upon  a  gentle 
eminence  beside  his  rural  dwelling,  looking  with  silent  joy- 
fulness  over  the  rich  landscape.  The  sun — fit  emblem  at 
once  of  mortality  and  of  immortality,  which  runs  its  appointed 
course  by  day,  only  to  be  hidden  from  the  view  by  night,  but 
still  to  rise  again  in  renewed  splendor — was  just  appearing 
from  beyond  the  eastern  hills,  pencilling  with  tints  of  gold  the 
cerulean  arch  above,  and  shedding  light  and  beauty  upon  all 
which  beneath  it  met  the  eye.  The  fruit  of  the  tree  of  know- 
ledge had  wakened  his  mind  to  reflection ;  and  as  Adam 
pondered  upon  his  future  prospects — how  he  should  live,  and 
finally,  dying,  pass  for  ever  from  the  scene — the  spirit  of 
meditative  prophecy  awoke  within  him,  and  his  spirit  passed 
afar  down  the  stream  of  futurity. 

Countless  throngs  filled  the  places  of  the  single  pair,  who, 
ages  before,  were  the  sole  tenants  of  the  earth.  The  single 
dialect  had  given  place  to  a  multitude  of  tongues,  and  the 
primary  occupation  of  man  had  been  varied  by  all  the  results 
of  the  sciences  and  the  mechanic  arts.  Forests  had  dis- 
appeared ;  mountains  were  levelled ;  morasses  had  been 
drained ;  and  primitive  nature  had  altered  no  less  than  all 
the  rest  around  him.  Man  did  not  alone  till  the  earth  for  a 
scanty  subsistence.  His  enterprising  skill  had  taught  him  to 
plough  the  wave ;  and  the  white  sails  of  his  noble  ships  shone 
brightly  in  the  morning  sun,  and  wafted  his  commerce  to  the 
most  distant  seas.  From  the  Orient  to  the  Occident — from 
the  rising  of  the  sun  even  to  the  going  down  thereof — all  were 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  239 

busy  in  harmonious  communion,  exchangig  the  products  of 
their  skill,  and  vieing  with  each  other  in  the  endeavor  to 
elevate  the  prosperity  of  the  nations  into  which  they  were 
divided.  Long  rows  of  warehouses  were  filled  with  countless 
riches ;  and  manufactories  reared  their  lofty  heads,  and  gave 
employment  to  thousands,  producers  of  national  wealth.  Turn 
whichsoever  way  he  would,  the  sunbeams  were  darkened 
with  the  smoke  of  the  steam-engine,  and  the  air  resounded 
with  the  musical  clang  of  the  workman's  hammer,  or  the  busy 
hum  of  the  shuttle  and  the  loom. 

Nor  was  agriculture  less  altered  than  its  sister  arts.  The 
first  luxuriance  of  the  soil  was  gone,  the  predicted  thorns  and 
thistles  had  come  forth;  and  man  tilled  the  ground  in  the 
sv,  eat  of  his  brow,  that  he  might  eat  bread  until  he  returned 
to  the  original  dust  from  which  he  was  taken.  Nutritious 
grains,  luscious  fruits,  and  fragrant  flowers,  no  longer  came 
forth  in  spontaneous  abundance ;  but  labor,  unremitting  labor, 
was  necessary,  that  man  might  live.  But  even  here  Science 
had  stepped  in.  The  simple  implements  of  primitive  hus- 
bandry were  no  longer  known,  and  in  their  place  were  all 
that  could  lighten  toil,  and  force  the  ground  to  bring  forth 
to  the  utmost  of  its  capability.  Artificial  nutriments  and 
stimulants  enriched  the  soil ;  the  plough  cast  its  deep  furrows 
far  below  the  surface,  and  skilful  culture  doubled  the  product 
which  unassisted  nature  could  bestow.  Flowers  brighter  and 
more  beautiful  than  those  which  erst  bloomed  in  Eden's 
bowers ;  fruits  larger  and  more  luscious,  and  in  greater 
variety,  than  were  known  to  primitive  man ;  cereal  grains  in 
richer  abundance  than  the  earth  brought  forth  in  its  years  of 
virgin  youngness,  were  scattered  in  bold  profusion  on  every 
side. 

Man  himself  was  not  less  changed  than  all  by  which  he 
was  surrounded :  the  simple  coat  of  skins  in  which  he  was 
clothed  after  he  had  forfeited  Eden,  was  discarded,  and  the 
plants  of  the  earth,  the  beasts  of  the  field,  the  birds  of  the  air, 
nay,  the  very  creeping  insect  that  spins  itself  a  tomb,  and  the 
fishes  that  live  beneath  the  sea,  were  taxed  to  attire  him  in 
the  voluptuous  magnificence  beseeming  the  state  of  him  who 
is  the  appointed  ruler  over  all :  silks  of  variegated  hues,  their 


240  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

many  colors  softening  down  and  melting  into  one ;  cloths  of 
silky  softness,  grateful  to  the  touch ;  fabrics  costly  enough  to 
serve  for  the  ransom  of  a  king ;  feathers  floating  and  undulat- 
ing in  the  air,  and  rich  gems  reflecting  back  the  rays  of  light 
till  the  eye  was  dazzled  with  the  splendor !  But  not  to  the 
acquisition  of  wealth  alone  was  the  daring  genius  of  man 
confined;  Wisdom  also  waited  on  him  with  her  aid.  The 
stars  themselves  could  not  hide  their  counsels  from  him :  he 
traced  their  devious  way  through  the  heavens ;  told  when 
they  should  hide  their  rays,  and  when  appear  again ;  eccentric 
comets  came  and  went  as  he  foretold ;  ocean's  trackless 
waste  was  made  a  travelled  road,  through  which  his  ships 
were  guided  with  unerring  certainty.  Railroads  shortened 
distances,  and  canals  were  made  to  take  the  place  of  rivers. 
Steam,  that  mighty  giant,  confined  like  the  genii  in  the  eastern 
tale,  in  its  metal  cylinder,  had  been  subjugated  to  his  will,  and 
performed  labors  that,  without  it,  had  been  impossibilities. 
All  things  ministered  to  him,  and  man  was  wise  and  great, 
and  rich  and  powerful:  and  he  was  happy  too — no,  not  happy; 
but  he  was  merry.  The  note  of  the  harp,  the  tinklings  of  the 
tambourine,  and  the  glad  clappings  of  the  Castanet,  saluted 
Adam's  ear,  and  blithesome  maidens  and  agile  youth  glad- 
dened his  eyes  as  they  threaded  the  lascivious  mazes  of  the 
dance. 

He  gazed  upon  the  scene,  musing  upon  its  passing  love- 
liness ;  yet  his  spirit  was  sad  within  him,  and  the  tear  of 
sorrow  trickled  down  his  manly  cheek.  "  What  avails  it," 
said  he,  "  to  man,  that  he  has  achieved  greatness  ? — that  all 
around  him  is  prosperous? — and  that  Wisdom  waits  on  his 
footsteps,  and  listens  to  his  behests  ?  A  few  short  years,  and 
shall  he  not  DIE,  leaving  all,  and  be  mingled  with  the  original 
clod  of  the  valley?  And  this  all  the  result  of  my  disobedience! 
Oh!  why  may  not  this  curse  be  taken  off?  Why  should  my 
innocent  descendants  suffer  for  the  parents'  wickedness,  and 
leave  a  world  so  bright,  so  beautiful,  so  happy  ?" 

Suddenly  the  scene  was  changed.  The  sun  was  darkened, 
and  the  rich  landscape,  and  all  man's  magnificence,  faded  from 
his  view,  and  he  was  treading  the  streets  of  a  vast  commercial 
city.  On  one  side,  the  stately  palace  reared  its  turrets  to 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  241 

the  clouds ;  on  the  other,  the  lowly  hut  of  the  laborer  was 
crumbling  to  decay,  its  mouldy  walls  but  half  supported  by 
the  dark  ivy  with  which  they  were  overrun.  The  costly 
carriage,  with  its  prancing  horses  and  its  stylish  outriders, 
dashed  o'er  the  pavement,  overturning  in  its  progress  the  lame 
beggar,  whose  arm  outstretched  in  vain  for  alms ;  at  one  hand 
was  he  whose  princely  revenue  might  feed  a  province,  and  on 
the  other  the  poor  widow,  whose  children  cried  for  bread,  and 
found  it  not ! 

He  entered  a  wretched  dwelling.  The  door  creaked  on 
its  rusty  hinges  as  he  gained  admittance,  and  the  crazy  stair- 
way shook  beneath  his  weight  as  he  mounted  it.  Here  and 
there  a  ragged  child,  or  a  squalid  woman,  eyed  him  scrutiniz- 
ingly  as  he  proceeded.  A  low,  deep  moan,  as  of  one  in 
distress,  arrested  his  attention,  and  he  entered  the  apartment 
from  which  it  proceeded.  The  air  was  chill  with  the  cold 
blast  of  a  wintry  day,  but  fire  there  was  none.  The  moisture 
trickled  down  the  clammy  walls  and  fell  in  drops  upon  the 
floor.  A  wretched  pallet  of  uncovered  straw,  the  refuse  of 
a  stable,  was  in  a  corner  placed,  and  upon  it,  stretched  at 
length,  what  once  was  a  man.  But  exposure,  dissipation, 
want,  and  disease,  had  nearly  done  their  work :  the  attenuated 
frame,  the  sunken  cheek,  the  glassy,  glistening  eye — all  told 
that  he  was  dying.  Two  little  children,  half  clad,  whose  very 
looks  betokened  starvation,  were  lying  listlessly  on  the  floor, 
while  beside  the  departing  man  a  woman  knelt,  haggard  from 
want,  but  yet  a  woman  still,  bathing  his  pallid  brow,  mois- 
tening his  parched  lips,  and  wiping  the  cold  death-sweat  from 
his  face.  The  last  struggle  was  at  hand.  He  raised  himself 
upon  his  couch,  gave  a  wild  shriek,  gazed  around  him  with 
glaring  eyes,  and  cried  out,  "Give  me  bread  1 — I  STARVE,  I 
STARVE  !"  Another  groan,  and  all  was  over !  The  spirit 
had  gone  to  its  account — was  in  a  world  where  there  is  no 
starvation ! 

Again  the  scene  was  changed,  and  he  stood  within  a 
spacious  hall.  At  the  extreme  end  were  seated  grave-looking 
men,  and  above  their  heads  was  a  female  statue,  with  eyes 
blindfolded,  bearing  in  one  hand  a  well-poised  balance,  and  in 
the  other  a  drawn  sword.  One  half  the  room,  divided  off  by  a 


242  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

small  partition,  waist  high,  and  furnished  with  rough  benches, 
was  densely  filled  with  a  motley  crowd.  Inside  the  inclosure, 
were  sharp-featured  men,  who  looked  profoundly  indifferent  as 
to  what  was  passing  before  them,  or  were  busily  engaged  in 
the  perusal  of  the  neatly-folded  papers  with  which  the  table 
was  bestrewed.  At  one  corner  was  a  grated  box,  and  in  it  a 
young  man,  prepossessing  in  appearance ;  but  his  pallid  brow 
and  sunken  eyes  showed  the  effects  of  long  confinement.  His 
was  an  eventful  but  not  uncommon  history.  Sanguine,  enter- 
prising, ambitious,  he  had  entered,  but  a  short  time  before,  the 
busy  scenes  of  life.  Success  for  a  time  greeted  his  honest 
efforts.  He  married,  and  a  fond  wife  smiled  upon  his  face, 
and  an  infant's  prattle  gladdened  his  heart  as  he  rested  from 
his  daily  toil.  Reverses  came — sickness  followed,  and  he  was 
a  beggar.  Haggard  want  hollowed  the  cheek  of  her  he  loved, 
and  his  child  asked  for  the  mouthful  of  bread  which  he  had 
not  to  give.  Employment  was  vainly  sought — friends  failed — 
he  was  tempted,  and  he  fell. 

One  spectator  was  there,  sitting  beside  those  cold,  grave- 
looking  men  around  the  table  within  the  bar,  who  was  not 
indifferent  to  the  scene ;  for  the  convulsive  sob  that  ever  and 
anon  burst  forth,  despite  her  efforts  to  smother  it,  told  but  too 
plainly  the  agonized  feelings  with  which  she  awaited  the 
return  of  the  jury,  who  had  just  retired  to  decide  whether  the 
accused  should  be  restored  to  his  family  and  the  world,  or, 
immured  within  the  walls  of  a  prison,  should  expiate,  by  years 
of  humiliation  and  of  suffering,  the  wrong  which  society  had 
experienced  through  him.  Anon,  the  almost  awful  stillness 
of  the  place  was  broken,  and  a  slight  tumult  at  the  side-door 
announced  that  the  jury  were  about  to  return.  The  prisoner 
arose,  and  cast  a  cold,  almost  scornful  look  around,  but  care- 
fully averting  his  eyes  from  her  who  was  so  nearly  beside  him. 
She  also  had  risen,  and  the  pallid  face,  the  distended  eyes,  the 
compressed  lips,  the  heaving  bosom,  all  told  how  much  of 
good  or  of  evil  hung  upon  the  words  which  would  in  a 
moment  be  spoken.  A  voice,  calm  as  unconcern  could  make 
it,  asked,  "  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  do  you  find  the  prisoner  at 
the  bar  guilty  or  not  guilty  ?"  Another  answered,  in  terrible 
distinctness,  "  GUILTY  !"  One  scream,  so  loud,  so  piercing, 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  243 

that  the  hall  reverberated  with  its  echoes,  and  the  spectators 
sprung  from  their  seats,  as  if  there  were  danger  in  the  sound, 
proclaimed  that  a  heart  had  broken.  They  lifted  her  tenderly 
up,  and  bore  her  to  the  opened  window,  in  hope  that  the 
refreshing  air  of  heaven  might  revive  her.  In  vain — the 
convict's  wife  was  dead ! 


Years  had  passed  by,  and  Adam  stood  within  a  prison's 
gate;  He  stopped  not  to  look  at  the  misery  around  him ;  to 
mark  the  effects  of  crushed  hopes,  forgotten  aspirations,  the 
terrible  retribution  which  follows  a  life  ill-spent.  His  was  a 
higher  mission.  He  had  been  summoned  to  see  a  Christian 
die.  Yes,  within  those  walls,  so  high,  so  gloomy,  which  shut 
out  the  pure  air  and  light  of  heaven  from  the  wretched 
inmates,  a  Christian  spirit  was  about  to  wing  its  flight  to 
those  celestial  regions  where  is  neither  crime,  nor  punishment, 
nor  sorrow.  He  entered  a  lowly  cell,  where,  propped  up  by 
pillows  on  a  narrow  bed,  was  the  man  whom  he  had  seen  just 
as  the  trial  ended  which  had  resulted  in  his  present  confine- 
ment. But  oh  how  changed !  The  full,  manly  cheek  had 
wasted  to  a  shadow.  The  proud  and  scornful  look  was  gone, 
and  meekness,  resignation,  nay,  happiness,  had  taken  its  place. 
His  two  hands  were  folded  together,  and  his  eyes  were 
uplifted  to  Heaven  in  prayer.  Oh  what  a  torrent  of  fervid 
eloquence  did  he  pour  forth,  laying  his  whole  heart  open  as 
he  communed  with  his  Creator!  He  spoke  not  of  his  past 
blighted  life ;  his  hopes  destroyed  ;  his  happiness  wrecked. 
No;  all  was  peace,  and  quietness,  and  joy.  There  was  no 
darkness  in  the  future;  but  glory  and  triumph  through  Him  in 
whom  he  trusted,  and  a  happy  reunion  above  with  her  whom 
he  had  loved  most  below.  The  heavens  in  all  their  bright- 
ness were  spread  open  before  him,  and  in  glowing  language 
he  described  the  glories  of  the  scene.  The  bright  cherubim 
and  seraphim,  the  choirs  of  angelic  beings ;  the  spirits  of  the 
just  made  happy,  in  their  shining  garments,  all  beckoning 
him  away,  and  welcoming  to  their  ranks  one  whose  crimes, 
though  bright  as  scarlet,  had  become  white  in  the  blood  of  the 
Lamb.  So  he  prayed,  till  his  last  breath  passed  away ;  and, 


244  THE 

as  his  spirit  winged  its  flight,  a  smile  of  heavenly  sweetness 
spread  itself  over  the  face  of  the  -earthly  tenement  which 
that  spirit  had  forsaken. 

Then  Adam's  eyes  were  opened,  and  he  saw  his  folly  and 
blindness  when  he  lamented  that  man  could  not  live  alway. 
He  knew,  now,  that  death  was  the  king  of  terrors  only  to  those 
who  had  rejected  the  ransom  which  heavenly  love  had  pro- 
vided, while  it  furnished  a  happy  release  from  the  want,  and 
care,  and  sorrow,  of  the  world ;  that  it  was  only  a  dark  portal 
through  which  entrance  was  to  be  had  to  a  brighter  and  more 
beautiful  world,  where  sorrow  entereth  not,  neither  care  nor 
want,  where  sin  and  death  are  unknown,  and  happiness 
endureth  for  ever. 


A  light  hand  was  laid  on  Adam's  shoulder,  and  he  started 
from  his  uneasy  slumber.  Nature's  sun  was  high  in  heaven, 
and  the  morning  mists  had  disappeared  from  the  sky.  Even 
so  the  doubts  and  fears  which  had  clouded  his  morning 
meditations,  had  been  dispersed  by  the  light  which  beamed 
in  the  visions  of  his  sleep,  and  he  bowed  his  head  in  grateful 
submission  to  the  behests  of  Him  who  had  ordered  all  things 
in  the  spirit  of  infinite  wisdom.  Eve,  her  animated  face 
radiant  with  smiles,  was  bending  lovingly  over  him.  He 
pressed  her  fondly  to  his  heart.  "When  our  race  is  run, 
dearest/'  he  said,  "we  shall  lie  down  in  the  earth,  and  be 
separate  for  a  season ;  but  death  cannot  part  us ;  for,  shall 
we  not  meet,  hereafter,  in  that  better  land,  where  parting  is 
unknown,  and  TIME  endeth  its  span  in  ETERNITY  ?" 

BROOKLYN,  N.  Y.,  June,  1846. 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN — Like  Prometheus,  he  brought  fire 
from  heaven — but  while  the  fire  of  Prometheus  has  gone  out, 
that  of  Franklin  burns  with  ever-increasing  lustre. 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  245 


REFLECTIONS  OVER  A  SLEEPING  CHILD. 


BY   P.   SQUIEES. 


Soft  be  thy  rest,  thy  slumber  sweet,  my  boy, 
Drink  thou  to  fulness  from  the  sunny  streams 

Of  life's  young  spring ;  and  may  no  base  alloy, 

No  rude  alarm,  disturb  thy  cherub  joy, 

Or  call  thee  from  the  pleasant  land  of  dreams. 

What  are  the  thoughts  that  swell  thy  sinless  breast  ? 

And  what  the  scenes  thy  spirit  wanders  through  ? 
Perchance  thou'rt  holding  converse  with  the  blest, 
The  cherub  throng,  in  shining  vesture  dressed, 

And  joining  their  sweet  songs,  for  ever  new. 

As  thus  I  stand  and  gaze  upon  thee  now, 

And  watch  upon  thy  curling  lips  the  smile, 
And  the  deep  calm  upon  thy  placid  brow — 
Whose  heart,  nor  sin,  nor  grief,  nor  perjured  vow, 
Hath  known — I  fain  would  cease  to  breathe  awhile, 

Lest  I  should  break  the  silken  links  that  bind 

Thy  spirit  in  its  cloudless  home  of  light, 
And  call  thee  back  again,  and  thou  shouldst  find 
Each  cherished  vision  fled,  and  thy  young  mind 
Become  a  prey  to  sorrow  and  to  blight. 

But  thou  wilt  wake  again,  and  time,  ere  long, 

Unfold  its  checkered  scenes  for  thee  to  meet ; 
And  life,  which  now  is  like  the  early  song 
Of  birds,  will  darken ;  but  if  thou  art  strong 
In  virtue's  cause,  God  will  direct  thy  feet. 

Then  slumber  on,  sweet  babe :  thou  art  the  care 
Of  Him  whose  hand  the  arching  heavens  outspread, 

Who  set  the  stars  on  high,  and  holds  them  there  ; 

Asleep — awake — he'll  save  thee  from  despair, 
And  be  a  flaming  shield  above  thy  head. 

NEW- YORK,  July,  1846. 


246  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 


EMINENT    PRINTERS 


BY    CHAS.    C.    HAZEWELL. 

EVERY  printer  may  feel  proud  at  the  recollection,  that  the 
same  mind  which  had  employed  itself  in  effecting  a  good 
proof,  had  also  conceived  the  design  of  drawing  fire  from 
heaven; — that  the  same  hand  which  had  justified  lines  of 
"  matter,"  had  signed  the  first  treaty  that  the  United  States 
made  with  a  great  European  power,  by  which  our  national 
existence  was  guarantied,  our  independence  established,  and 
the  whole  train  of  consequences  which  have  followed  from  the 
Revolution  of  '76,  rendered  of  certain  occurrence.  Equally 
proud  should  he  feel,  on  recollecting  that  one  of  the  first 
of  modern  historians,* — a  man  who  united  in  his  productions 
the  learning  and  spirit  of  indefatigable  research,  so  eminently 
characteristic  of  the  historial  school  of  Germany,  with  the 
brilliancy,  the  clearness,  the  force,  and  the  general  tone  of 
benevolence  which  are  conspicuous  in  that  of  modern  France, 
— was  once  a  printer,  and  had  risen  by  his  own  exertions  to 
the  dignity  of  an  instructor  of  nations,  an  advocate  of  mental 
freedom,  and  a  vindicator  of  human  rights.  Nor  should  his 
spirit  be  less  elevated,  when  he  recalls  to  his  mind  that  the 
most  eminent  of  modern  lyrists,  f — the  man  who  always 
employed  his  powers  on  the  right  side ;  now  satirizing  Na- 
poleon, when  he  overstepped  the  line  marked  out  for  him  by 
justice  and  common  sense ;  now  inciting  the  French  people, 
in  tones  that  stir  the  heart  like  a  bugle-call,  to  rally  around 
the  emperor,  when  their  country  was  threatened  with  another 
Hunnish  invasion  ;  now  covering  an  imbecile  government 
with  ridicule,  when  it  sought  to  restore  old  forms  in  a  new 
age,  and  to  make  France  the  heritage  of  the  Jesuits  and 
/  *~ 

*  Michelet.  f  Beranger. 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  247 

priests ;  and  now  singing  of  love,  in  strains  gay  as  those  of  a 
Poitevin  troubador,  or  with  a  sadness  sweet  and  touching  as 
that  of  Mimnermus, — was  in  early  life  a  laborer  in  a  printing 
office,  where  he  learned  the  use  and  power  of  language.  He 
may  also  remember,  that  a  printer*  exchanged  the  composing- 
stick  for  the  baton  of  Marechal  of  France,  and  who  dis- 
tinguished himself  by  driving  the  English  and  Russians  from 
Holland,  and  against  the  Austrians  on  the  plains  of  Italy.  It 
is  not  for  many  of  us  that  a  high  career  is  destined,  that  being 
impossible  from  the  very  nature  of  things  ;  but  the  success  of 
men  like  those  alluded  to  is  of  an  encouraging  character  to  all 
who  toil  for  a  livelihood,  as  exemplifying  the  truth  that  few 
positions  are  denied  to  those  who  possess  talent,  however 
humble  their  origin  or  depressing  the  circumstances  by  which 
their  early  life  is  surrounded.  The  constant  contemplation  of 
excellence  and  high  desert,  will  at  least  result  in  elevating  our 
thoughts,  if  it  fail  to  raise  us  into  high  positions;  and  the 
true  strength  of  a  nation  is  to  be  found  in  the  purity  of  its 
producing  classes. 


TO  MY  NATIVE  PLACE. 


BY   THOMAS   W.    BENItE. 


The  Indian,  when  his  lamp  of  life 

With  faint  and  waning  lustre  burns, 
And  weary  from  the  battle's  strife 

And  spirit-stirring  chase  he  turns, 
Sighs  for  the  fields  and  streams  where  sprung 

His  young  dreams  into  manhood's  fires, 
For  ever  there  to  rest  among 

The  graves  and  ashes  of  his  sires : 


*  Mar6chal  Brune. 


248  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

So.  Maspeth,  turns  my  heart  to  thee, 

Scene  of  my  spirit's  Sabbath  hours, 
Where  sported  not  more  joyously 

The  bird  amid  thy  woodland  bowers, 
Than  my  young  feet,  that,  winged  with  joy, 

For  ever  springing  new  and  bright, 
Had  but  one  task,  one  sweet  employ, 

To  chase  the  phantoms  of  delight — 

The  visions  that  from  morn  till  eve 

Rose  to  my  soul's  enraptured  view, 
And  which,  if  false,  did  so  deceive, 

They  had  not  given  more  bliss  if  true. 
Though  brief  as  bright,  yet  still  around 

My  spirit  flit  those  forms  of  bliss 
That  Heaven  to  childhood's  hour  has  bound, 

And  Memory  saves  to  gladden  this. 

I  roam  thy  fields,  I  climb  thy  hills 

With  a  wild  joy,  even  now,  as  then ; 
And  still  the  lovely  prospect  thrills 

My  heart — and  I  am  young  again ! 
Thy  streams  have  something  in  their  flow 

That  links  to  them  this  heart  of  mine — 
I  know  not  what,  but  only  know 

I  love  no  other  streams  as  thine. 

Unaltered,  where  all  else  has  changed, 

Albeit  unmapped,  unnoted,  these 
Has  Heaven  in  beauty  round  us  ranged 

As  landmarks  in  our  destinies — 
The  heart's  material  boundaries, 

To  which,  how  far  soe'er  it  roam, 
It  may  at  will  return,  and  seize 

A  blessing,  if  not  find  a  home. 


THE  PEN  AND  THE  PRESS — The  sword  and  the  shield  of 
enlightened  Freedom.  May  all  future  battles  be  fought  upon 
paper,  and  the  victory  be  his  who  furnishes  the  best  "  copy." 


249 


INNOCENCE-GUILT-REPENTANCE. 


AN    APOLOGUE. 


BY   REV.    WM.     ALFRED    JENKS. 


A  CHILD  —  rambling  by  a  woodland  stream,  meandering 
steadily  and  silently  toward  the  great  reservoir  of  waters  — 
stood,  for  a  moment,  calmly  viewing  its  smooth  and  vitreous 
appearance :  scarcely  a  ripple  disturbed  its  unruffled  surface, 
and  it  seemed  to  be  peacefully  reposing  upon  its  muddy 
bed — asleep.  The  boy  advanced  to  the  bank,  and  gazed 
intently  upon  the  pleasing  scene.  It  was  Morning.  Nature 
was  just  awakening  from  her  recent  slumber,  and  hundreds 
of  feathered  choristers  welcomed  the  return  of  Spring  and 
light  with  notes  of  gladness.  All  day  that  child  amused  itself 
near  this  beautiful  brook  ;  now,  playfully  skipping  stones  over 
its  placid  breast  —  then,  tossing,  with  eager  joy,  tiny  boats  of 
bark  into  the  winding  current;  sometimes  chasing  the  but- 
terfly among  the  blooming  wild-flowers  —  but  anon,  returning 
to  sport  upon  the  shores  of  this  quiet  sheet  of  shining  water. — 
Oftentimes,  while  endeavoring  to  grasp  some  object  floating 
beyond  his  reach,  was  he  in  danger  of  falling ;  but  a  faithful 
spaniel,  springing  from  the  bank,  anticipated  his  master,  and 
saved  him  from  impending  peril.  At  last,  tired  and  satisfied, 
he  sought  his  home,  and  sweetly  slept  and  smiled  in  the  arms 
of  INNOCENCE. 

******* 

But  look  again  at  this  spot  and  mark  the  change !     The 

little  brook,  that  once  glided  on  its  way  so  gently,  is  now 

swollen  to  a  fearful  height ;    and,   tossed  to  and  fro  by  the 

angry  winds,  its  waves  leap  madly  onward,  whirling  and 

28 


250 

foaming  amid  the  general  roar  of  the  tempest.  The  sweet- 
toned  songsters  have  ceased  their,  tuneful  lays,  and  now 
crouch,  terrified  and  shivering,  within  their  leafy  retreats- 
The  wild-plants,  that  before  adorned  this  lovely  garden,  and 
sent  forth  perfumes  upon  the  air  around,  are  now  crushed 
and  broken  by  the  rude  whirlwind.  It  is  Noon  —  and  the 
sun  hath  attained  to  its  meridian,  hid  behind  the  lowering 
clouds.  A  burst  of  deep-toned  thunder,  echoing  and  rever- 
berating through  the  adjacent  forest,  hath  been  followed  by 
a  quick  flash  of  vivid  lightning,  which,  for  an  instant,  lighted 
up,  with  dazzling  brightness,  the  surrounding  scenery.  The 
rumbling  of  Heaven's  artillery  is  dying  in  the  distance  ;  a 
loud  crash,  as  from  the  falling  of  a  giant  oak,  hath  just 
sounded,  sharp  and  clear,  from  the  wood;  and  a  horse, 
springing  convulsively  forward,  dasheth  his  rider  to  the 
ground,  and  falleth,  stunned  by  a  projective  branch  of  the 
stricken  and  still  smoking  tree.  The  man,  slowly  recovering, 
riseth  to  his  feet.  He  is  in  the  prime  of  healthful  existence  ; 
and,  as  he  glanceth  about  him,  with  an  air  of  recklessness 
and  impatience,  the  attentive  observer  would  —  from  his 
blood-shotten  eye,  and  fierce,  dark  frown — be  led  to  pro- 
nounce his  character  desperately  wicked.  And  so  it  is ! 
This  wretch  on:e  stood  upon  the  banks  of  this  steamlet, 
a  pure  and  innocent  child ;  he  hath  sported  with  its  waters, 
in  all  the  joyous  merriment  of  guileless  boyhood ;  he  hath 
also  mixed  with  men,  and,  in  the  headlong  pursuits  of  vain 
and  sinful  pleasures,  forgotten  his  infant  happiness  !  In  a 
moment  of  furious  excitement,  at  the  gambling-table,  he  hastily 
thrust  an  associate  in  sin  before  the  awful  presence  of  an 
insulted  GOD!  He  fled — and  is  now  standing,  drenched 
and  houseless,  upon  the  very  sand  which  he  so  often  pressed 
in  artless  ignorance  of  evil !  Life  is  now,  to  him,  one  con- 
tinuous storm.  He  hath  eluded  the  punishment  prescribed 
by  civil  law  for  the  worst  of  crimes,  and  is  alone!  Re- 
gardless of  the  warring  elements,,  he  paceth,  with  downcast 
looks,  and  long,  uneven  strides,  the  pebbly  beach.  All  will 
not  avail.  Even  the  Summer's  tumult,  raging  at  its  height, 
faileth  to  dispel  the  horrid  gloom  which  hath  fastened  upon 
his  fevered  £f  ain ;  harrowing  reflections  still  crowd  into  his 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  251 

bewildered  mind,  poisoning  every  thought  with  a   deep  and 
maddening  consciousness   of  GUILT. 


Once  more,  let  us  visit  this  beautiful  grove,  and  enjoy 
many  new  and  pleasing  attractions.  No  sounds  now  disturb 
the  universal  stillness  of  a  Winter's  Night.  The  happy  carols 
of  birds  have  long  since  ceased  to  fill  the  air  with  sweet 
melodies  ;  and  the  merry  chirp  of  countless  insects  no  longer 
enliveneth  the  scene.  All  nature  is  silent !  The  swift- 
running  stream  hath  now  sunk  to  a  quiet  slumber,  and  still 
floweth  on,  beneath  its  hyaline  surface,  in  the  same  con- 
tinued course.  The  many-tinted  flowers,  which  erst  had 
rendered  all  bright  and  cheerful,  are  gone.  The  surround- 
ing trees  have  been  stripped  of  their  green  vesture,  and 
now  spread  forth  their  branches,  stiffened  and  cold.  The 
ruthless  blasts  have  scattered  "  the  sear  and  yellow  leaf," 
which  formeth  a  ready  couch  for  "the  white-robed  guest. 
'Tis  cheerless,  yet  pleasing !  The  pale  and  gentle  moon 
sendeth  down  her  mild  and  silvery  beams  upon  us,  gilding 
all  things  below  with  soft  and  liquid  light,  and  revealing 
the  various  objects  around  us.  But  hark  !  A  human  voice 
breaketh  on  our  musings  !  Let  us  approach  yon  solitary 
pile,  within  the  wood,  whence  strains  of  psalmody  seem 
to  issue ;  lifting  the  latch,  noiselessly,  let  us  observe  its 
occupant.  We  behold  the  kneeling  form  of  a  man,  whose 
wrinkled  visage,  and  long,  white  locks,  betoken  age  ;  and 
whose  mild  and  sorrowful  aspect,  lowly  attitude,  and  com- 
fortless abode,  proclaim  him  a  self-denying  ascetic.  The 
notes  of  praise  are  stopped,  and  he  is  now  engaged  in 
earnest  and  tearful  supplication  to  ALMIGHTY  GOD.  He 
prayeth  for  pardon  and  peace.  He  asketh  forgiveness  of 
heinous  crimes,  long  since  committed.  His  apirations  teem 
with  religious  devotion,  for  his  words  come  from  **  a  broken 
and  a  contrite  heart."  Big  drops  of  anguish  roll  from  his 
upraised  eyes,  and  his  enfeebled  frame  quivereth  with  emo- 
tion. 'Tis  a  holy  man !  Let  us  withdraw :  for,  we  would 
not  disturb  the  awful  communion  of  a  penitent  sinner  with 
his  only  REDEEMER,  nor  destroy,  by  our  presence,  the  sweet 


252 

and  calm  solemnity  of  such  a  scene.  But  why  doth  this 
venerable  hermit  evince  such  fervor,  and  what  cause  hath 
operated  to  drive  him  from  the  busy  world,  to  his  present 
lonely  dwelling-place?  His  history  is  short,  but  eventful. 
In  infancy,  and  in  youth,  he  looked  with  gladsome  eyes, 
upon  this  same  spot.  Those  frolicksome  days  were  spent 
near  these  now  icy  waters.  Here  he  first  played ;  here  he 
once  dwelt,  pure  and  blameless,  a  happy  boy  !  But  his  after- 
life was  passed  in  the  midst  of  dissipation,  and  vice ;  his 
companions  were  lawless  revellers,  whose  deeds  exercised  a 
baleful  influence  over  his  actions  and  character;  and  a 
dreadful  crime  placed  him  upon  the  very  brink  of  ruin.  By 
precipitate  flight,  he  escaped  the  ignominious  gallows,  and 
sought  his  early  home.  There  all  was,  to  him,  strange  and 
desolate ;  his  parents  slept  beneath  the  sod,  whereon  he 
was  wont  to  gambol ;  friends  had  departed,  and  former  play- 
fellows shunned  him;  he  felt  that  he  was  an  outcast,  and 
his  proud  spirit  was  humbled  ;  visions  of  other  days  flitted 
before  him,  bringing,  with  three-fold  force,  an  overpowering 
sense  of  his  present  loathsome  and  dangerous  condition  ; 
and,  with  trembling  lips,  he  invoked  the  merciful  compassion 
of  an  OMNIPOTENT  FATHER  !  Aye,  that  tongue,  to  which 
blasphemy  and  cursing  had  long  been  familiar,  sent  forth 
an  ardent,  sincere  petition  for  GOD'S  pity  and  forgiveness 
through  a  SAVIOUR'S  merits!  His  prayer  was  heard,  and 
granted !  From  that  moment,  the  tumult  within  subsided, 
and  he  received  strength  and  grace  from  above.  A  "  still, 
small  voice"  whispered  consoling  words,  and  he  was  com- 
forted ;  conviction  rushed  to  his  heart,  and  it  was  subdued ! 
His  resolution  taken,  he  left  forever  the  daily  haunts  of  men, 
and  now  liveth  but  to  atone  for  past  misdeeds,  in  solitude, 
and  hopeth  to  gain  a  pardon  and  a  heavenly  reward  by 

humble  REPENTANCE. 

******* 

Youthful  Reader: — The  moral  is  plain.  Life,  like  the 
little  streamlet,  floweth  onward,  smoothly  and  uninterrupt- 
edly ;  and,  directed  by  our  own  judgment  and  conscience, 
we  behold  a  bright  and  cheering  prospect  during  the  days 
of  innocence.  But,  when  we  depart  from  the  path  of  virtue 


THE   PRINTER'S    BOOK.  253 

and  rectitude,  our  journey  is  pursued  amid  darkness  and 
gloom ;  billows  surround  us,  and  tempests  rage  on  every 
side ;  dreary  and  terrible  anticipations  of  a  future  doom  steal 
into  our  minds,  driving  all  hence,  save  a  burning  sense  of 
guilt.  Even  in  this  state,  there  is  room  for  hope  and  en- 
couragement !  Though  cast  out  and  despised  of  men,  one 
haven  yet  remaineth  into  which  we  may  safely  enter,  and 
find  a  resting-place.  For  that  we  may  successfully  struggle 
and  there  all  will  be  calm  again.  By  devout  repentance, 
and  self-mortification,  and  a  firm,  faithful,  and  fervid  reli- 
ance upon  the  merciful  POWER  Which  governeth  all  things, 
a  deliverance  from  the  blackest  stains  of  crime  may  be 
wrought,  and  the  most  despairing  mortal  be  reclaimed  from 
vice,  and  rescued  from  eternal  destruction,  for  the  sake  of 
HIM  Who  bought  the  salvation  of  mankind !  GOD  alone 
can  minister  to  the  bleeding  heart,  racked  by  accumulated 
sin  and  misery. 


THE  EXILE  TO  HIS  SISTER. 

As  streams  at  morn,  from  seas  that  glide, 

Rejoicing  on  their  sparkling  way, 
Will  turn  again  at  eventide, 

To  mingle  with  their  kindred  spray; 
E'en  so  the  currents  of  the  soul, 

Dear  sister,  whereso'er  we  rove, 
Will  backward  to  our  country  roll, 

The  boundless  ocean  of  our  love. 

Yon  northern  star,  now  burning  bright, 

The  guide  by  which  the  wave-tost  steer, 
Beams  not  with  more  devoted  light, 

Than  does  thy  love,  my  sister  dear. 
From  stars  above  the  streams  below 

Receive  the  glory  they  impart ; 
So,  sister,  do  thy  virtues  glow 

Within  the  mirror  of  my  heart. 


254  THE   PRINTER'S    BOOK. 


BENEVOLENT  INSTITUTIONS. 


BY    PETER    C.    BAKER. 

THE  benevolent  institutions  that  have  been  planted  in 
every  part  of  our  country,  purifying  and  blessing  the  land, 
as  flowers  whose  fragrance  and  beauty  give  health  and  joy, 
are  the  great  conservators  of  virtue  on  which  we  all  may 
surely  rely,  nor  fear  for  the  safety  of  the  public  heart  while 
so  many  temples  of  truth  stand  in  our  midst,  daily  sending 
forth  their  warnings,  dispensing  their  blessings,  and  encour- 
aging man  to  view  his  fellow  as  a  brother  and  a  friend.  In 
these  benevolent  associations  the  good  and  generous  grains 
of  the  heart  find  a  congenial  soil,  in  which  they  grow  and 
ripen  into  richest  maturity  —  making  men  better  —  bidding 
them  press  forward  and  upward — expanding  the  heart,  and 
causing  it  to  beat  with  love  and  sympathy  for  kindred  souls. 
Such  is  the  spirit  engendered  by  the  frequent,  friendly  meet- 
ings, the  warm  greeting,  and  the  kind  smile  or  sign  of  recog- 
nition. Such  is  the  spirit  which  keeps  alive  and  warm  the 
true  sense  of  duty — which  ennobles  man,  and  makes  him  unfit 
for  baseness — which  developes  his  finer  nature,  exhibits  to  him 
his  true  dignity,  and  prepares  him  for  his  destiny. 

The  good  which  is  accomplished  by  such  institutions  cannot 
be  computed.  Statistics  may  inform  us  of  many  cheering 
particulars — of  the  amount  of  moneys  paid  to  the  sick — of  the 
sum  expended  for  burials  —  of  the  number  of  widows  relieved, 
and  orphans  provided  for ;  yet  all  of  these  show  but  little  of 
the  great  influence  exerted.  There  are  still  greater  blessings 
dispensed,  which  we  cannot  determine  by  figures.  The  pure 
principles  which  are  stamped  upon  the  heart,  and  the  lessons 
of  love  which  are  taught  in  these  temples,  exert  an  effect  upon 
society  we  cannot  limit;  they  develop  themselves  in  every 
great  and  good  action,  in  every  attempt  to  improve  and  exalt 
the  condition  of  suffering  man.  So  closely  are  these  principles 
twined  around  the  tendrils  of  the  heart,  that  a  sigh  starts  them 


255 


into  action,  and  a  tear  quickens  them  with  life.  Their  office 
is  love,  peace,  and  good  will  to  all,  of  whatsoever  clime  or 
sect.  They  tend  to  break  down  the  barriers  of  ignorance  and 
prejudice,  which  close  the  bigot's  heart  to  the  cries  of  his 
kinsman.  They  level  the  fictitious  distinctions  which  pride 
and  power  have  drawn  between  wealth  and  worth.  They 
make  man  know  and  feel  his  true  position — his  duty  to  him- 
self, his  fellow,  and  his  Maker.  Thus  informed,  he  is  given 
renewed  hope — confidence  and  courage  grow  upon  him — mak- 
ing him  valiant  in  virtue's  cause — practising  her  precepts,  and 
laboring  for  her  victories. 


MOSES  STRIKING  THE  ROCK, 

BY   F.    J.    OTTERSON. 


"AND   they  murmured  again."    Could  the  chosen  of  God 

Be  so  weak  in  their  faith,    and  so  cold  in  their  love  — 
After  all  that  had  passed  —  since  the  serpent-made  rod 

First  hissed  at  the  monarch  the  plague  could  not  move? 
Forgot  were  the  wonders  JEHOVAH  had   wrought; 

The  bush  unconsuming  on  Midian's  plain; 
The  dust  turned  to  lice,  and  the  million  frogs  brought, 

And  the  rivers  of  blood  rolling  death  to  the  main : 

When  the  sun  set  at  noon  in  a  heaven  full  of  flies; 

When  the  murrain  and  blain  smote  the  beasts  of  the  stall; 
When  the  lightning  and  hail  showered  doom  from  the  skies, 

And  the  locusts  drew  over  old  Egypt  a  pall: 
When  the  sun  and  the  stars  shut  their  light  from  the  earth, 

And  the  tangible  darkness  held  absolute  sway; 
When  the  Angel    of  Death  claimed  the   earliest  birth, 

And  ravished  the  young  hope  of  Egypt  away. 

Forgot,  the  red  pillar  that  shone  all  the  night, 
Like  an  altar  of  flame,  on  the  verge  of  the  sky; 

The  cloud,  that  by  day  led  their  journey  aright, 

Or  frowned  back  the  foemen  whose  chariots  were  nigh: 


256  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

Forgot,  the  vexed  waters  that  threatened  in  vain, 
As  they  •  trod  the  deep  caves  of  the  ^God-riven   sea : 

And  the  doom,  when  the  rod  was  stretched  over  the  main, 
And  the  deathwail  of  Egypt  sang  Israel  free. 

"And  they  murmured  again."      Scarce  the  echo  had  died 

Of  the   song  of  the  prophetess,  praising  the   Lord, 
And  Shur's  lonely  wilderness,  dreary  and  wide, 

Caught  faintly  the  timbrel's  harmonious  accord; 
When,  thirsting,  to  Marah's  dark  water  they  came, 

And  eagerly  quaffed,  but  as  eagerly  spurned  — 
Its  bitterness  served  but  as  oil  to  the  flame, 

Till  the  tree  to  rich  sweetness  the  bitterness  turned. 

ttAnd  they  murmured  again,"  in  the  Desert  of  Sin: 

"Would  to  God  we  had  died  by  the  fleshpots  of  yore! 
For  the  Famine  is  with  us,  all   ghastly  and  thin, 

And  the  Lord  we  have  followed  will  hear  us  no  more!" 
Then  the  glory  of  God,  flashing  out  from  the  cloud, 

Bade  the  quail  and  the  manna  of  heaven  to  fall; 
And  the  murmurs,  at  midday  so  frequent  and  loud, 

At  sunset  were  praises  and  thankfulness  all! 

"And  they  murmured  again,"  though  the  manna  and  quail, 

At  daybreak  and  nightfall,  forgot  not  to  come, — 
At  Rephidim,  "No  water!"  — "No  water!"  the  wail! 

And  the  voice  of  thanksgiving  grew  suddenly  dumb. 
But  the  Patient,  Long-Suffering,  Often-Contemned, 

Who  led  by  his  presence  his  murmuring  flock, 
Still  kind  and  forbearing,  where  Justice  condemned, 

Brought  them,  thirsting  and  weary,  to  Horeb's  high  Rock. 

"Strike!    Prophet  of  Mine!"      The  all-powerful  rod, 

Like  a  bolt  of  red  lightning,  tore   open  the  stone, — 
And,  glittering  bright  in  the  splendor  of  GOD, 

The   Symbol  of  Truth  murmured  joyfully  down ! 
Rejoice,  ye  complainers!    your  sorrows  are  o'er! 

Let  Massah  and  Meribah  ever  remain! 
The  former  to  herald  the  chidings  you  bore  — 

The  latter  to  comfort  who  seeks  to  complain! 


So  from  Hope's  Horeb-rock  may  the  rod  of  our  Faith 
Draw  forth,  in  these  days,  the   sweet  river  of  Love, 

As  we  toil  through  the  desert  dominion  of  Death, 
To  a  home  in  the  Canaan  of  glory  above! 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  257 


AUTUMN. 


BY    CHARLES   S.    TODD. 


THE  "  melancholy  days  of  autumn,  the  saddest  of  the 
year "  to  some,  and  to  others  the  sweetest,  have  come  at 
last,  with  their  golden  hues  and  fading  verdure.  And  how 
brief  has  been  the  space  since  the  bright  festival  of  spring 
time  —  when  tempest  and  desolation  were  all  forgotten 
amidst  the  sweet  songs  of  birds  in  their  shaded  bowers  of 
bliss !  The  chill  breath  of  nature  is  imperceptibly  stealing 
over  plant  and  flower,  the  leaflet  hangs  wrestling  in  the 
wind,  and  the  green  carpet  of  creation  is  beginning  to  wear 
a  yellowish  or  motley  color  —  the  index  of  decay.  This  is 
a  season  ever  pregnant  with  reflection,  for  all  around  and 
about  us  tells  of  the  perishable  nature  of  the  things  of 
earth.  To  many  who  have  already  passed  the  rubicon  of 
middle  life,  and  whose  spirits  are  depressed  by  difficulties 
or  broken  by  unavailing  struggles,  it  is  a  season  of  peculiar 
melancholy,  for  it  warns  them  that  their  time  for  action 
has  passed,  that  the  advent  of  life's  winter  is  fast  ap- 
proaching. They  look  back  upon  their  bright  spring  time 
of  existence,  when  life  wore  the  beauty  of  promise,  and 
mournfully  contrast  the  joyous  past  with  the  dreary  present. 
To  those,  too,  who  are  but  in  life's  prime,  it  is,  betimes, 
sadder  to  look  back  upon  the  flowery  fields  of  existence 
through  which  they  have  been  rambling,  and  to  contrast 
them  with  the  beaten  track  they  now  tread,  and  the  deso- 
late prospect  in  perspective.  Many  a  bright  orb  of  hope 
that  has  once  cheered  them  on  the  pathway  of  life,  emits  a 
fainter  beam ;  the  horizon  of  happiness  recedes  as  they  ad- 
vance towards  it;  the  shadows  will  soon  begin  to  lengthen, 
and  the  chill  airs  of  evening  to  usurp  the  fervors  of  noon- 


258 

day.  To  many  the  pride  of  their  youth  has  passed  away, 
and  so  have  their  fondest  dreams,  and  they  feel  themselves 
to  be  changed,  and  their  faculties  of  enjoyment  diminished, 
and  are  filled  with  a  mixture  of  worldly  scorn  and  una- 
vailing regret  for  the  lovely  season  that  has  so  briefly  flitted 
away  from  them,  never  to  be  recalled. 

But  autumn  with  all  its  deepening  shadows  is  not  wholly 
a  season  of  gloom,  even  though  the  howling  blasts  and 
sear  leaf  do  remind  us  of  perished  hopes  and  coming  death. 
In  the  fall  of  the  year,  even  with  its  mournful  decay, 
there  is  something  which  charms  the  soul  and  sweetens 
human  life ;  for  the  rustle  of  the  changing  green,  the  wind's 
low  sigh,  the  creaking  door,  the  house-cricket's  prolonged 
chirp,  and  the  lit-up  hearth,  send  our  thoughts  back  on  an 
errand  of  memory  to  those  charming  hours  and  happy  days 
of  youth  and  hope  —  days  of  childhood,  of  innocence  — 
when,  with  many  a  beloved  one  from  whom  we  have  now 
parted,  we  sat  around  the  family  hearth-stone  and  partook 
of  the  feelings  of  other  times.  There  is  a  moral  to  be 
gathered  while  contemplating  the  changes  of  nature  at  the 
present  season  of  the  year,  for  we  are  apt  to  abstract  our 
thoughts  from  the  perishable,  to  turn  from  earth's'  ephemeral 
charms  to  the  more  sublime  beauties  which  lie  beyond  it. 
In  our  contemplations  the  belief  steals  upon  us  that  if  the 
vital  power  is  continually  sustained  year  after  year  upon 
the  face  of  the  earth,  in  the  grass-blade,  in  the  forest,  and 
in  the  many  forms  of  nature, —  so  also  will  there  come 
another  existence  to  man's  life,  and  the  frail  dust  of  his 
mortality  will  assume  a  far  brighter  and  purer  shape,  be 
animated  with  a  new  existence,  by  the  same  power  that 
garnishes  so  beautifully  the  forests  and  the  flowers. 


PRINTING: — The  powerful  lever,  based  upon  the  fulcrum 
of  Thought,  by  which  the  mental  world  shall  be  lifted  into 
an  orbit  of  light  and  knowledge  inferior  only  to  the  brilliancy 
and  glory  of  Heaven. 


THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK.  259 


dtdagov  q^ag  rtQOGsVftEtf&ai,.  —  ST.  LUKE,  xi.  1, 


BY   REV.    WM.    ALFRED    JENKS. 


BOND  of  the  purest  Love  ! 

Pledge  of  the  tend'rest  care ! 
All  perfect  from  above  — 
The  privilege  of  Prayer : 

To  mortals  given, 
By  hand  of  HEAVEN! 
"  O  LORD,  teach  us  to  pray !" 

Amid  the  chilly  gloom  — 

Darkness  of  sin  below  — 
Bright  flowers  of  Faith  may  bloom, 
And  fragrance  upward  throw! 

Such  fragrance  —  Prayer ! 
Sweet  incense  there ! 
"O  LORD,  teach  us  to  pray!" 

\ 

Enthroned  in  highest  state ; 

With  Truth  Eternal  crowned; 
A  willing  ADVOCATE 
By  humble  Prayer  is  found! 

His  aid  obtained! 
His  SPIRIT  gained ! 
"O  LORD,  teach  us  to  pray!" 

When  o'er  the  heart  is  spread 

The  mantle  of  despair! 
When  smiles  of  Earth  have  fled, 
The  soul  exults  in  Prayer ! 
JESU!  to  Thee 
We  bend  the  knee ! 
U0  LORD,  teach  us  to  pray !" 


260 


When  joys  below  essay 

To  veil  the  Spirit's  sight; 
Through  Prayer  the  saving  ray 
Beams  from  "The  Light  of  light!" 
All  glorious ! 
Victorious ! 
"  0  LORD,  teach  us  to  pray !" 

By  Prayer  is  GOD  appeased; 

By  Prayer  is  man  subdued; 
By  Prayer  are  Angels  pleased; 
By  Prayer  are  Saints  renewed  ; 

Through  HIM  Who  died 
The  CRUCIFIED  ! 
"  0  LORD,  teach  us  to  pray !" 

CREATOR!     Fount  of  LOVE! 

REDEEMER  !     Blessed  LAMB  ! 
Consoler!     Heavenly  DOVE! 
TRIUNE!     Divine  "I  AM/' 

Frail  Man  forgive ! 
And  while  we  live, 
"O  LORD,  teach  us  to  pray!" 


WOMAN. 

BY     N.     P.     WILLIS. 

Oh,  what  is  woman — what  her  smile — 
Her  lip  of  love — her  eye  of  light — 
What  is  she,  if  her  lips  revile 
The  lowly  Jesus!     Love  may  write 
His  name  upon  her  marble  brow, 
And  linger  in  her  curls  of  jet — 
The  light  spring  flower  may  scarcely  bow 
Beneath  her  step,  and  yet — and  yet — 
Without  that  meekest  grace,  she'll  be 
A  lighter  thing  than  vanity. 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  261 


AMERICAN    LIBERTY 

EXTRACTS  FROM  AN  ORATION. 


BY   PETEE   C.   BAKEE. 

As  Americans,  we  cannot  reflect  upon  the  influence  of 
our  institutions  without  feeling  that  a  precious  trust  has  been 
confided  to  us,  and  that  a  sacred  responsibility  rests  upon  us 
as  the  pioneers  of  freedom. 

If  our  example  has  emboldened  the  heart  and  nerved  the 
arm  of  the  oppressed  in  other  climes,  we  must,  as  the  exem- 
plars of  liberty,  preserve  our  pristine  purity,  and  present  a 
model  republic,  fit  in  all  its  parts  to  be  followed  by  a  con- 
fiding race.  The  people  of  other  lands  have  a  right  to  look 
to  us  for  guidance ;  and,  as  the  chosen  sons  of  freedom,  we 
should  not  shrink  from  our  duty. 

It  is  not  enough  that  we  offer  a  constitution  as  perfect 
as  fallible  man  can  frame : — it  is  not  sufficient  for  us  to  say, 
Follow  that,  and  you  shall  be  free.  Political  liberty  may  be 
won  by  the  sword,  and  the  chains  of  political  slavery  be 
broken  by  determined  hearts,  and  yet  there  may  be  but  little 
true  freedom  gained.  We  must  give  a  moral  as  well  as  a 
political  model  to  the  infant  republics  which  shall  arise  in 
the  Old  World.  We  may  pull  down  a  prison,  throw  open 
its  dungeons,  and  set  the  captives  free,  and  yet  only  lay 
bare  our  breasts  to  the  steel  of  those  whose  chains  we  severed 
without  curbing  their  passions  and  vices.  So  in  reference 
to  the  uprising  of  an  oppressed  people — there  is  something 
more  than  mere  physical  power  requisite  to  make  them  suc- 
cessful— to  make  them  truly  free.  Unless  they  possess  the 
sternest  virtue  and  purest  patriotism,  their  blood-bought,  hard- 
won  victories,  may  prove  barren,  and  only  lead  to  more 
galling  servitude  under  another  master. 


262  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

Political  slavery  is  not  the  only  slavery  which  deprives  man 
of  his  birthright.  Give  him  liberty  of  thought  and  action,  and 
still  he  may  be  held  in  worse  than  iron  chains.  Make  a  nation 
politically  free  by  force  of  arms,  and  leave  its  heart  unculti- 
vated, and  you  have  only  sunk  it  deeper  in  despair.  The 
passions  and  vices  which  the  tyrant  could  curb  by  his  power, 
left  without  control,  become  masters,  and  overspread  the  land, 
rioting  upon  the  blood  and  treasure  of  the  weak,  and  sundering 
all  the  bonds  of  social  security.  This  might  be  termed  a 
triumph  over  tyranny,  but  could  it  be  called  Liberty  !  Such 
revolutions,  as  said  a  French  orator,  "  are  like  Saturn ;  they 
devour  their  own  children  !" 

The  glory  which  has  attended  the  Revolution  of  our 
fathers,  springs  from  their  virtues.  They  knew  what  Liberty 
meant  ;  they  knew  that  political  freedom,  without  moral 
restraint,  would  be  anarchy,  and  worse  than  the  rod  of  a  king. 
They  planted  their  temple  upon  the  rock  of  Public  Virtue, 
and  bade  their  posterity  remember  that  ignorance  and  sin, 
unwatched  and  unopposed,  would  undermine  the  foundations 
of  their  freedom. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

As  the  pioneers  of  true,  rational  liberty,  it  is  natural  that 
we  should  feel  an  intense  interest  in  the  progress  of  Free- 
dom every  where.  We  claim,  and  justly,  I  think,  that  the 
success  of  our  republican  experiment  has  had  much  to  do 
with  the  recent  events  abroad.  With  that  sympathy  for 
the  oppressed,  which  is  a  part  of  the  freeman's  faith,  we 
have  ever  prayed  that  all  nations  might  see  the  beauties 
and  benefits  of  our  system,  and  erase  from  their  codes  the 
creed  that  the  people  are  but  cattle,  born  to  be  ridden  by 
royal-blooded  jockies,  who  may  lash  and  spur  the  poor 
bleeding  beasts  by  "  divine  right"  and  "  the  grace  of  God !" 

*  *  #  *  #  # 

Our  fathers  fled  from  oppression,  and  came  to  a  land 
where  no  royal  foot  had  ever  trod.  Here  the  earth  and 
air  alike  were  free  !  Here  nature  shone  as  when  first  from 
the  hand  of  the  Creator — no  taint  of  tyranny  was  seen — all 
was  wild — all  was  open — all  were  free !  Aside  from  the 
motives  which  led  the  pilgrims  here,  they  felt  that  God 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  263 

alone  was  the  fit  Monarch  of  such  a  land.  Their  children's 
hearts  were  imbued  with  their  parents'  faith,  and  in  sentiment 
they  sung, 

"  God  is  the  only  King  we  own, 
And  he  has  made  us  free." 

Such  hearts,  in  such  a  land,  were  never  created  to  bow 
the  knee  to  human  power  ;  and  when  royalty  sought  to  make 
them  submissive,  it  received  a  rebuke  from  which  it  can 
never  recover.  By  this  I  mean  that  the  principles  for  which 
our  fathers  contended,  and  which  by  their  virtue  and  valor 
they  succeeded  in  establishing,  have  been  stealing  into  the 
minds  of  men  ever  since  our  struggle ;  have  recently  shown 
the  strong  root  they  have  taken,  and  shall  at  last  completely 

triumph. 

****** 

As  the  chosen  people  of  liberty,  how  can  Americans  con- 
sider their  lot  without  feeling  that  their  duties  as  citizens  are 
sacred  ?  We  have  declared  that  royalty  is  a  farce — a  king  a 
fable — and  that  all  are  equally  free  and  sovereign.  Our  system 
of  government  is  based  upon  these  truths,  and  thus  far  we  have 
proved  ourselves  worthy  of  the  confidence  of  our  fathers. 
But  let  no  man  think  our  temple  is  for  ever  safe.  Let  no 
man  think  he  can  sit  supinely,  and  not  exercise  the  duties  of 
a  freeman,  without  impairing  the  strength  of  his  country. 
"  Eternal  vigilance"  is  truly  "  the  price  of  liberty !"  Vigi- 
lance is  demanded  of  every  man  who  claims  to  be  a  freeman, 
and  only  when  it  ceases  to  be  exercised,  need  we  fear  for  our 
safety. 

The  Romans,  in  the  days  of  their  Republic,  had  a  maxim 
full  of  majesty  and  truth,  which  said,  "  To  be  a  Roman  is 
greater  than  a  king !"  If  this  was  true  of  a  Roman  citizen, 
how  much  more  so  is  it  when  applied  to  an  American !  As  I 
interpret  this  maxim,  it  refers  not  only  to  the  dignity  and 
power  of  a  citizen,  in  contrast  with  that  of  a  king,  but  also  to 
his  duties  and  responsibilities.  So,  while  it  carries  with  it 
an  idea  of  the  freeman's  superiority,  it  also  inculcates  a  lesson 
of  his  duty,  full  of  meaning  and  beauty. 


264  THE    PRINTER'S    BOOK. 

The  perpetuation  of  that  glorious  Union  which  our  fa- 
thers cemented  by  their  blood,  and  hallowed  by  their 
prayers,  is,  to  my  mind,  the  greatest  object  an  Ameri- 
can can  seek.  Who  but  a  traitor  would  wish  to  pluck 
one  star  from  that  glorious  diadem,  which  has  so  long 
shed  its  benignant  rays  over  our  beloved  country,  and 
lighted  us  thus  far  on  in  the  path  of  unexampled  pros- 
perity !  Is  not  each  jewel  of  that  crown  equally  precious ! 
Who  but  a  traitor  would  lessen  the  lustre  of  our  coun- 
try's glory,  by  disuniting  the  diamonds  which  the  patriots' 
blood  and  prayers  set,  secure,  they  thought,  in  the  shield 
of  their  country's  safety ! 

The  sentiment  of  the  illustrious  New-England  senator 
—  the  modern  Cicero  —  should  be  indelibly  stamped  upon 
the  American  heart  —  "Liberty  and  Union  —  now  and 
for  ever  —  one  and  inseparable  !"  "  One  Country  !  one 
Constitution !  one  Destiny !" — This  is  the  great  idea. — 
Let  us  remember  this  in  all  our  conflicts ; — in  all  our 
legislation  may  this  never  be  forgotten ;  and  let  every 
heart  vow  to  our  country,  that 

"  Never  shall  her   stars   decline, 
Until  on  Freedom's  grave   they   shine !" 


FRANKLIN  !  —  It  is  a  name  that  will  be  canonized  and  pei  - 
petuated  so  long  as  the  Art  of  Printing  shall  be  known ! 
The  Spirit  of  Freedom  !  It  will  be  felt  and  cherished  while 
there  is  a  Printer's  heart  to  beat,  or  a  bosom  to  throb  with 
generous  emotion !  The  Fame  of  Franklin!  It  will  last  as 
long  as  Liberty  shall  be  known  on  earth,  or  the  Lightnings 
shall  flash  through  the  Heavens !  I  would  rather  have  such 
a  name,  such  a  character  to  bequeath  to  my  posterity  —  the 
mantle  of  such  a  spirit  to  fall  upon  the  shoulders  of  my  cher- 
ished sons  —  than  all  the  fame  and  glory  of  a  Ca3sar  or  a  Na- 
poleon —  than  all  the  wealth  of  a  Rothschild,  a  Girard  or  an 
Ator! 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  265 


MAN  CONSIDERED: 

AS    HE    IS,    AS    HE    SHOULD    BE 


BY   G.  M.  BOURNE. 

MAN,  by  the  Creator  destined  to  and  capacitated  for,  the 
exquisite  enjoyment  of  Happiness,  with  hopeful  exceptions,  only 
begins  to  recognize  the  great  truth.  Accustomed  from  the 
earliest  period  of  his  race  to  the  butcheries  of  warring  wrong 
and  cruelty,  to  the  triumph  of  might  over  right,  to  suffering, 
wretchedness,  and  want,  he  has  bowed  to  the  prevalent  dogma 
that  the  present  is  a  state  of  probation  in  which  he  must 
necessarily  suffer,  and  having  journeyed  life's  fitful  course, 
enter  upon  a  state  of  bliss  for  an  endless  eternity — a  panacea 
of  hope — a  solace  for  all  present  trials  and  distresses.  But  of 
those  who  really  accept  the  dogma,  few  reflect  how  incapa- 
ble must  a  life  of  wretchednes  here,  render  them  for  a  glori- 
ous future  of  which  they  speak.  It  is  inconsistent,  for  "  as 
the  tree  falls,  so  shall  it  lie." 

Man  as  he  is,  does  not  recognize  the  term  happiness  ;  and, 
with  few  exceptions,  will  not  even  tolerate  its  possibility  on 
earth ;  he  therefore  seeks  not  true  happiness;  nor  will  he  listen 
while  the  path  is  being  pointed  out.  In  defiance  of  the  Crea- 
tor's fiat  in  his  formation,  he  has  determined  that  he  must  only 
anticipate  vexations,  sickness,  sorrow,  suffering,  and,  as  a  con- 
sequence, he  has  the  whole  in  a  pre-eminent  degree.  But  I 
do  not  admit  the  truth  of  this  fallacious  dogma.  It  wars  not 
only  with  man's  intellectual,  but  physical  organization.  It 
does  outrage  to  an  unperverted  sense  of  justice,  and  it  likewise 
outrages  a  just  perception  of  truth  and  righteousness.  It  also 
gives  false  coloring  to  an  intuitive  discernment  of  the  neces- 
sity of  effort  at  self-preservation,  the  result  of  which  is  a  sordid 
selfishness  and  grasping  rapacity,  which,  while  it  pampers  the 
29 


266  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

few,  starves  the  many,  and  makes  the  canker  sores  of  the 
world. 

Man  is  miserable,  wretched,  and  suffering.  In  his  civilized 
state,  he  has  wandered  as  far  from  the  path  of  right  as  he  has 
in  his  savage,  in  peopling  the  inhospitable  regions  of  the  earth, 
where  humanity  should  make  no  foothold,  because  there  it 
cannot  be  developed  to  its  legitimate  bounds. 

Man,  capable  of  the  holiest  and  noblest  emotions,  yet  so 
grovelling ;  man,  with  perceptions  nearly  allied  to  Deity — so 
godlike — yet  so  stultified  in  his  pursuit  of  wealth,  of  the 
means  even  of  existence ;  has  not  time  to  seek  true  know- 
ledge. He  may  cursorily  glean  a  few  vague  ideas,  and  in 
reality  may  be  said  to  know  nothing.  With  all  his  boasted 
knowledge,  he  is  very  ignorant.  Education,  worthily  so 
termed,  belongs  only  to  the  few,  who  form  a  privileged  class, 
and  after  all  may  be  said  to  be  essentially  ignorant,  so  rarely 
is  education  combined  with  practical  utility.  To  the  mechanic, 
it  is  considered  sufficient  that  he  is  master  of  his  art ;  the 
farmer,  that  he  can  hop  his  clods;  the  day  laborer,  that  he 
"  knows  enough  to  go  into  the  house  when  it  rains,"  so  per- 
verse is  the  condition  of  things.  The  consequence  of  all 
which  is,  the  almost  universal  ignorance  of  the  laws  of  life  and 
health,  unwise  legislation,  and  municipal  folly  manifested  the 
earth  over.  Organic  law  disregarded  is  punished  by  physical 
deformity,  mental  infirmity,  disease,  suffering,  and  premature 
death.  Ambition,  false'pride,  arrogance,  are  not  only  tolerated, 
but  actually  cultivated :  and  while  the  siren  song  of  "  Peace 
and  good  will"  is  resounding,  tender  sensibilities  are  outraged 
and  heart-strings  breaking.  Who  can  predict  the  end  of  these 
things,  while  the  gratification  of  mere  sensual  desires  is  made 
the  paramount  object  of  solicitude  ?  And  when  can  a  change 
take  place,  even  if  subdued,  while  the  system  of  commerce  is 
continued  ?  A  system,  whose  antagonism  to  justice,  to  gene- 
rosity, to  every  thing  noble,  is  such,  that  its  most  refined  teach- 
ings, well  received,  can  only  make  a  man  sordid  and  heartless. 
Its  fundamental  axiom  is  to  buy  cheap,  and  sell  dear.  It 
regards  not  the  actual  cost  of  purchase  or  produce,  it  stops  not 
to  inquire  whether  the  transaction  it  would  drive  will  entail 
ruin,  nor  does  it  care ;  it  only  seeks  to  know  what  can  be 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  267 

0 

made  by  it.  It  is  nought  but  a  system  of  extortion ;  an  actual 
legalized  great  system  of  robbery,  patronized,  upheld,  and  glori- 
fied by  the  religion  of  the  past  and  the  present.  While  this 
gigantic  robbery  of  labor  by  capital,  cunning,  and  superior  in- 
telligence prevails,  can  aught  but  general  ignorance,  depravity, 
and  vice,  as  at  present,  be  co-existent  ?  The  physical  man, 
ground  down  as  now,  demands  and  will  have  recreation  and 
enjoyment.  No  time  is  left,  nor  desire,  for  mental  culture, 
and  multitudes  are  so  debased,  that  they  have  lost  all  self- 
respect.  There  are,  of  course,  exceptions ;  there  are  souls 
which  drink  deep  at  the  everlasting  fountains,  despite  all  ob- 
stacles ;  but  what  avails  an  exception  of  thousands  or  hundreds 
of  thousands,  in  thousands  of  millions  ? 

Again,  while  it  is  seen  that  a  lordly  few  possess  the  earth's 
soil  by  hundreds,  thousands,  and  even  millions  of  acres,  with 
tenements  almost  numberless,  perhaps  three-fifths  of  its  occu- 
pants cannot  claim  sufficient  to  cover  their  bones,  nor  own  a 
shelter  for  their  heads.  The  great  mass  of  mankind  may  be 
said  to  be  without  a  home.  Such  persons  are  not  likely  to 
have  lasting  or  strong  endearments,  nor  is  there  reason 
for  refined  sensibilities.  They  feel  themselves  the  sport  of 
chance,  of  a  thousand  contingencies,  over  which  they  can  ex- 
ercise no  control.  Is  it  not  humiliating?  Is  it  a  matter  of 
surprise  that  in  such  a  state  of  things  there  should  exist  so 
much  that  is  rude,  immoral,  and  devilish  ?  Why,  but  for  this 
system,  this  inequality,  is  it  that  the  greater  portion  of  man- 
kind is  taxed  for  the  maintenance  of  police  and  criminal  juris- 
prudence, with  their  appendages  of  prisons  and  pauper-houses, 
and  all  the  concomitants  of  crime  and  loss,  but  that  the 
iniquitous  claims  of  the  rights  of  property  may  be  de- 
fended, and  grinding  the  poor  and  honest,  until  they  be  driven 
to  desperation  ?  But  would  I  destroy  the  rights  of  pro- 
perty ?  No !  contrariwise,  I  would  have  all  men  of  property — 
none  gorged — none  destitute — none  poor — none  rich.  I  would, 
too,  desire  that  all  men  learn  simplicity  and  contentment.  I 
would  banish  idleness,  pride,  ostentation,  covetousness,  and 
injustice.  Instead  of  ignorance  and  stultification,  I  would 
have  universal  knowledge  and  intelligence,  and  every  man  and 
woman  capable  of  supplying  their  every  reasonable  want.  It 


268  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

can  be  done  !  It  will  be  done  !  I  imagine,  with  rejoicing,  the 
period  when  every  vestige  of  the  monstrous  system  of  our  day 
shall  be  annihilated,  with  all  its  lying  hypocrisy  and  calumnia- 
tion of  true  good.  I  look  now  at  the  vast  mass  of  pollution  as 
it  exists  ;  at  the  foul  conversation,  alike  of  too  many  of  those 
demanding  to  hold  a  position  in  society,  and  the  herd  at  large, 
and  I  attribute  it  to  the  influence  of  the  spirit  of  centralization, 
which  seems  to  conglomerate  mankind  into  a  festering  and 
putrid  mass.  Do  I  teach  my  children  good  morals  ?  Do  I 
endeavor  to  instil  into  their  minds  a  love  of  justice,  a  venera- 
tion for  truth  and  true  holiness  ?  Of  what  avail  is  it,  when 
every  surrounding  circumstance,  condition,  and  almost  every 
person  with  whom  they  can  or  must  indiscriminately  meet  in 
their  passage  through  the  days  of  their  years,  combat  my 
teachings  ?  Is  it  not  the  same  with  you  ?  Shall  the  purity  of 
existence  be  poisoned  in  its  well-springs,  and  yet  recover  ?  It 
may  be  possible,  but  I  cannot  conceive  it.  The  state  in  which 
we  live,  then,  is  inimical  to  purity  and  holiness.  As  a  conse- 
quence, impurity  and  vulgarity  are  almost  universal  with  man, 
and  can  only  be  corrected  by  a  total  change  in  the  structure 
of  his  social  relations  and  condition. 

He  is  now  found  by  millions  crowded  into  towns  and  cities, 
whose  narrow  and  filthy  streets  are  the  hotbeds  of  pestilence ; 
into  houses  illy  ventilated  ;  into  factories  and  workshops,  per- 
haps even  worse,  filled  by  the  poisonous  fumes  and  atom- 
loaded  atmosphere  of  their  occupation,  and  very  generally  shut 
out  from  the  cheering  rays  of  the  sun.  Oppressed  by  the  ex- 
actions of  capital  and  competition,  and  an  always  glutted  con- 
sumption, (though  not  always  glutted  buyers,)  his  face  is 
ground ;  his  period  of  labor  prolonged  to  the  utmost  possible 
limit  which  can  be  extorted  through  his  necessities ;  his  pale, 
wan  visage  showing  his  deteriorated  vitality ;  his  premature 
destruction  as  a  man.  His  children,  too,  are  penned  up  in  vast 
bodies  at  school,  either  to  get  them  out  of  the  way  of  the  per- 
plexed mother,  in  their  tender  years,  or  that  they  may  indiffer- 
ently learn  to  read  and  write,  preparatory  to  being  enslaved  in 
the  very  spring-time  of  existence,  by  the  bondage  of  some  pes- 
tilent factory  or  work-shop,  to  strive  for  a  portion  of  subsist- 
ence, generally  to  become  victims  to  the  almost  life-strong  habits 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  269 

of  using  tobacco,  intoxicating  drinks,  and  other  pernicious 
practices,  to  the  imminent  destruction  of  their  physical  being 
and  mental  powers. 

Ignorant  of  all  organic  law,  man  blindly  labors  to  his  own 
undoing.  He  is,  with  the  exception  of  the  few  professional 
and  cultivated,  totally  ignorant  of  the  laws  of  life  and  health. 
He  has  no  rational  conception  of  his  being.  Health,  life,  he 
intrusts  to  his  doctor ;  education  to  the  schoolmaster ;  sal- 
vation to  his  priest.  But  away  with  this  monstrous  wrong. 
I  will  have  none  of  it.  Give  me  that  light  which  enables  me 
to  regulate  my  health  and  life ;  that  education  which  enables 
me  to  cultivate  my  own  intellect,  together  with  my  family,  and 
time  to  do  it ;  and  that  rational  perception  of  Deity  which  shall 
teach  me  to  cultivate  in  myself  and  mine  those  godlike  virtues, 
which  shall  reveal  Heaven  begun  on  earth !  and  not  so  with 
me  and  mine  alone,  but  so  with  all. 

Man — wealthy  man — the  envied  object  of  so  many — is 
almost  universally,  from  some  cause  or  other,  miserably 
wretched.  Let  each  note  the  aspects  of  the  wealthy  man's 
case  for  himself.  Witness  the  countless  wrongs  he  has  com- 
mitted, and  the  opportunities  for  doing  good  purposely  shunned, 
in  the  pursuit  of  his  prize ;  witness  the  maledictions  which 
generally  attend  him ;  the  vices,  prodigality,  and  worthless- 
ness  of  his  children.  Such  generally  is  the  rich  man.  I 
would  not  be  he. 

Man — the  merchant — gain  is  his  polar  star.  Viewing  his 
occupation  as  it  is,  say,  on  a  retrospect  of  years,  if  perfect 
peace  is  his.  If  he  will  not  shuffle,  and  lie,  and  defraud  for 
himself,  think  you  he  can  close  his  eyes  upon  the  venality  of 
employing  those  who  will  ?  Ask  any  candid  merchant  whe- 
ther he  ever  knew  a  strictly  and  positively  honest  business,  un- 
less sustained  by  a  large  capital,  end  other  than  in  bankruptcy ; 
if  he  thinks  it  possible  it  could  be  otherwise  ?  How  can  it  suc- 
ceed in  opposition  to  an  immense  amount  of  known  mercan- 
tile fraud  ?  A  merchant  who  may  in  his  personal  transactions 
be  very  discreet  and  upright,  also  generally  knows  too  much  to 
be  over-inquisitive  in  all  things.  I  would  not  be  a  merchant. 

Man — as  a  tradesman.  "  There  are  tricks  in  all  trades  but 
ours/'  is  one  of  the  oldest  axioms ;  and  as  each  tradesman 


270  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

lauds  his  own,  and  blackens  all  others  with  the  aspersion,  it 
must  be1  admitted  that  there  are  tricks  in  all  trades.  How 
shall  they  be  recognized  who  perform  them  ?  and  how  do 
they  fare  who  are  not  up  to  them,  or  will  not  employ  them  ? 
I  would  not  be  a  tradesman. 

Man — as  a  laborer,  whose  time  must  be  sold  as  meat  in  the 
shambles  for  what  it  will  bring,  and  to  any  and  every  buyer ; 
whose  sole  hope  is  employment;  whose  life  is  a  wretched 
drudgery ; — he  is,  of  necessity,  a  suffering,  doubting,  and  de- 
spairing creature.  Such  I  would  not  be. 

The  farmer  man — is  he  content  ?  Has  he  enjoyment  ? — 
Who  ? — Where  ?  Has  he  not  become  almost  dependent  upon 
the  outside  world  for  his  every  necessary  implement — his 
clothing,  and  many  other  things  ?  Has  he  time  to  cultivate 
his  intellect?  No!  His  artificial  wants,  his  grasping  and 
morbid  anxiety  for  more  acres  to  lie  waste,  or  skim  over 
with  a  thriftless  cultivation,  deprives  him  of  content,  unless 
his  stultified  soul  exempt  him  from  the  consciousness  of  his 
position,  and  he  lays  down  his  battered  and  worn-out  carcass,  a 
miserable  abortion  of  God's  own  chosen  design.  I  would  be  a 
farmer,  but  not  such  as  he. 

"  Professional"  man — one  who  has  wasted  years  of  life's 
active  period  in  poring  over  the  prosings  of  other  days ;  whose 
sedentary  habits  have  unstrung  his  energies ;  whose  anxious 
days  are  spent  between  hope  and  fear ;  who  sacrifices  upon  the 
altar  of  his  Moloch,  by  obsolete  jargon  and  mystery,  so  un- 
intelligible to  himself,  that  he  cannot  explain  it  to  others — the 
universal  diffusion  of  knowledge — and  whose  retrospect  of  life 
should  be  as  bitter  as  his  course  generally  has  been  profitless 
to  his  species ;  whose  position  has  been  a  usurped  one,  un- 
justifiable. Such  I  never  will  be. 

Man  seeks  happiness,  but  finds  it  not.  From  the  most  ele- 
vated Ruler  to  the  humblest  of  the  Ruled,  it  is  the  same.  "All  cre- 
ation travaileth  and  groaneth  together  in  pain,  even  until  now." 
Christ,  whose  teachings  will  inevitably  ultimately  electrify  and 
humanize  the  soul  of  man,  is  almost  unheeded.  He  said,  "  Ye 
cannot  serve  God  and  Mammon,"  and  the  fools  who  build  gor- 
geous temples  for  a  professed  God-service,  say  we  can  ;  and 
the  evidence  exists  in  their  pride,  overbearing,  insufferable  self- 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  271 

righteousness,  and  base  hypocrisy  on  the  one  side,  and  the  de- 
basement, ignorance,  poverty,  destitution,  misery,  and  crime  of 
the  majority  of  their  species,  on  the  other.  And  Christ  taught 
that  "  God  is  not  worshipped  in  houses  built  with  men's 
hands,"  but  this  is  not  the  religion  of  the  day.  With  teach- 
ings in  Religion,  is  inseparably  combined  man's  earthly  wel- 
fare ;  and  while  the  present  position  of  civilized  man  is  fortified 
and  defended  by  false  religious  teachings,  so  long  as  those 
teachings  maintain  their  ascendency,  so  long  will  there  be  no 
general  amelioration  of  his  condition.  That  this  frustrates, 
for  the  time  of  its  endurance,  the  Creator's  design  for  his 
children's  welfare,  I  cannot  doubt,  though  satisfied  of  its  lim- 
ited duration,  and  that  truth  will  eventually  be  omnipotent. 

But  there  is  a  spirit  awake  which  begins  to  strip  flummery 
from  the  "  professional  man."  Universal  education  is  decreed. 
The  people,  too  slow  for  their  own  interests,  are  determining 
that  land  monopoly  shall  cease.  That  the  poor  man  shall,  if 
he  nill,  have  a  home,  despite  the  extortioner  or  the  monopolist, 
and  that  there  shall  be  a  limit  to  landed  possession  ;  and  that 
which  the  people  once  really  will,  must  come  to  pass.  Great 
will  be  that  day. 

The  Press,  unshackled  and  free  on  one  continent,  is  the 
great  battering-ram  wherewith  to  free  the  other.  In  learning 
to  respect  itself,  it  shall  also  be  respected,  and  become  the 
Motive  Power  to,  and  Guide  the  universe.  It  is  justly  approx- 
imating its  true  position  as  the  first  estate,  and  will  have  at- 
tained to  it,  when  its  conductors  shall  feel  that  on  them  rests 
the  weal  or  woe  of  the  human  family.  It  is  destined  alike  to 
become  powerful,  honorable,  and  glorious.  The  struggling 
pioneers  of  reform  in  the  present  century  prove  its  adaptation 
to  its  legitimate  Mission,  and  their  triumphs,  if  only  partial,  are 
a  holocaust  to  propitiate  the  greater  work  it  is  permitted  to 
perform.  Great  be  the  privileges,  great  the  responsibilities  of 
the  Press. 

A  humanity  in  the  aspect  of  the  Religion  of  Christ  begins 
to  be  recognized,  speaking  of  deeper  things  than  are  wont  to 
be  acknowledged  at  this  day.  A  glorious  and  hopeful  era. 

Reform  has  its  gripe  upon  venerated,  antiquated,  tricky 
Law.  The  lusty  defenders  of  its  rascalities  awoke  too  late  to 


272  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

save  it.  Its  culminating  point  will  be  the  abrogation  of  all 
law  for  the  collection  of  debt,  however  startling  it  may  sound 
to  those  who  have  never  contemplated  such  an  event.  That 
will  be  the  dawn  of  the  age  of  honesty,  and  the  decrease  of 
crime,  and  not  until  that  period  may  any  hope  for  empty  prison- 
houses.  There  are  a  thousand  ramifications  into  which  this 
subject  resolves  itself,  which  I  cannot  here  enter  upon,  but  I 
may  not  shut  my  eyes  to  its  results,  however  distant  the  day. 
The  leaven  is  at  work. 

Medicine  has  received  its  quietus,  in  its  own  house.  Ho- 
moeopathy, in  teaching  by  its  quite  successful  practice,  that 
infinitessimal  drugging  is  better  than  the  wholesale  practice, 
has  struck  the  death-blow  to  that  monstrous  system  of  stu- 
pidity, cunning,  and  crime ;  and  now  comes  Hydropathy  or 
the  Water  Cure  to  ingulf  it  for  ever,  in  due  season  ;  so  piece 
by  piece  shall  crumble  away  the  ignorance,  superstition,  folly, 
cant,  and  hypocrisy  of  the  past  and  present  day. 

"  The  dreaming  world  awakens  !     Morning's  call 

Rolls  round  the  Earth  in  numbers  clear  and  strong. 

On  distant  isles  the  welcome  sound  shall  fall, 
And  on  the  tawny  tribes  of  Asia's  throng, 
While  Afric's  sunburnt  children  doomed  to  wrong, 

Shall  join  the  Japhet  race,  and  swell  on  high 
The  life-command,  the  World's  Redemption  Song, 

Till  Heaven's  full  beam  shall  fill  the  azure  sky, 
And  in  unending  Day  the  Morning's  Light  shall  die  !" 

[WM.  OLAND  BOURNE.] 

The  Water  Cure  is  a  great  reformer.  Wherever  it  is  re- 
ceived in  a  spirit  of  kind  inquiry,  it  opens  men's  eyes  most  won- 
derfully. It  leads  to  universal  investigation,  and  when  man 
finds  how  he  has  been  duped  in  Medicine,  he  begins  to  cast 
about  him  to  see  where  the  duplicity  exists  in  other  hitherto 
unsuspected  things.  Some  have  been  greatly  astonished  :  in- 
genuous souls.  Water  Cure  embraces  the  whole  Philosophy  of 
Life  in  the  most  simple  and  harmonious  manner.  Its  teachings 
inculcate  wise  truths  in  diet,  air,  exercise,  clothing,  occupation, 
waking,  sleeping.  It  teaches  circumspection,  frugality,  the 
moderation  of  appetite  ;  the  proper  use  of  that  which  is  right, 
the  avoiding  of  that  which  is  wrong.  It  is  the  system  for  all 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  273 

mankind,  every  where.  It  finds  man  all  foul,  and  in  cleansing 
him,  inspires  self-respect,  enlarges  his  understanding,  gives  him 
confidence  in  his  own  powers — for  he  soon  comprehends  the 
system — and  increases  his  independence.  As  now  understood, 
it  is  the  system  of  our  day.  It  is  the  Angel  which  has  come 
down  to  our  troubled  waters,  mighty  to  the  cleansing  of  all 
who  step  in.  Its  strides  are  rapid,  and  an  investigation  of  the 
system  is  imperative  upon  all  who  are  wise,  and  there  be  many 
to  win  the  appellation. 

Such  as  I  have  rapidly  sketched  Man  as  he  is,  is  from  ob- 
servation and  collation.  Such  is  my  perception  of  him,  but  I 
have  not  dwelt  on  his  ferocity,  nor  dilated  upon  his  peculiar 
and  especial  vices.  I  love  not  to  contemplate  them.  Nor 
have  I  alluded  to  the  ignus  fatuus  lights  which  allure  him,  nor 
to  gleams  of  sunshine,  because  they  are  as  a  drop  in  the 
ocean.  I  shall  doubtless  be  called  a  "  disappointed  man," 
"  soured  with  the  world ;"  verily,  it  is  just  so,  not,  however, 
in  the  view  which  you  would  convey ;  but  that  matters  not. 
The  question  is,  do  I  see  things  as  they  are  ?  If  you  say  not, 
disprove  my  positions,  and  there  let  the  matter  rest ;  but  don't 
denounce  a  heresy  without  showing  wherein  it  consists. — I 
shall  not  predict  how  long  it  will  be,  nor  the  vast  amount  of 
change  necessary  to  produce  him — nor  the  modus  operandi — 
but  I  will  show  you 

MAN  AS  HE  SHOULD  BE. 

When  I  behold  in  prospect,  this  renovated  being,  "  my  soul 
doth  exceedingly  rejoice."  I  perceive  that  he  has  exchanged  his 
care-worn,  jaded,  sallow,  and  anxious  features,  and  his  bowed 
body,  for  those  of  contentment,  peace,  and  health.  He  now 
stands  erect,  conscious  of  his  own  nobility.  From  the  occu- 
pancy of  a  portion  of  a  miserable  tenement  in  a  crowded  city, 
surrounded  by  every  thing  calculated  to  make  existence  hateful 
and  a  burden,  I  now  see  him  translated  to  a  smiling  home,  wholly 
his  own.  He  is  now  a  cultivator  of,  but  not  speculator  upon, 
the  soil,  or  its  products.  Instead  of  being  driven  off  to  school, 
or  into  the  streets  or  work-shops,  in  his  infancy,  to  be  made 


274  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

the  receptacle  of  foul-mouthed  blasphemy  or  obscenity,  he 
was  gently  nurtured  at  home  by  his  loving  and  lovely  mo- 
ther, until  he  became  capable  of  receiving  the  instructions 
suited  to  his  maturer  years  from  a  fond  father,  who  would 
have  recoiled  at  pollution's  touch  as  from  a  viper.  He  is 
now  a  "  Man,  but  little  lower  than  the  Angels."  He  is 
frugal  and  simple  in  his  tastes.  His  wants  are  few.  He  is  ca- 
pable to  their  fullest  supply.  He  abounds  in  all  that  is  needful. 
Benevolence  is  his  great  characteristic.  He  longs  to  do  good. 
He  is  educated — a  colossus  of  knowledge,  and  yet  he  is  only 
an  infant  in  the  school  of  acquisition.  ,He  thirsts  for  more 
knowledge,  and  has  abundant  time  to  gratify  his  thirst,  and 
fulfil  every  requirement  upon  him.  Instructed  in  the  Laws  of 
Life,  sickness  is  unknown  to  him.  At  a  greatly  advanced  pe- 
riod of  longevity  he  is  quietly  gathered  to  his  fathers,  having 
peacefully  passed  into  the  long  sleep,  from  a  life  of  peace,  pu- 
rity, love,  and  the  fulfilment  of  every  obligation  to  the  Creator, 
himself,  and  his  species.  This  is  Heaven  begun  on  earth. 
This  is  a  fitting  for  a  Paradise  with  God.  And  here  I  leave 
him,  and  his  happy  descendants,  for  then  all  is  happiness. 
Yes,  they  are  happy  in  his  departure,  because  in  due  time,  and 
with  all  things  corresponding,  it  is  right ! 

But  this  state  was  brought  about  by  the  total  extin- 
guishment of  all  man's  worthless  machinery  of  life.  Com- 
merce, with  all  its  duplicity  and  fraud,  has  for  ever  per- 
ished. The  extortioner  has  ceased  his  demands.  The  arts 
are  cultivated  universally,  but  only  to  the  extent  of  man's 
wants,  and  each  and  every  individual  is  talented  to  produce  for 
himself.  For  his  subsistence  he  cultivates  the  soil.  To  him 
it  is  a  matter  of  pleasure.  He  does  it  understandingly,  and 
prolific  earth  pours  forth  for  his  reward  in  rich  profusion. 
Joyous,  smiling  Earth  !  Oh  !  happy,  happy  Man  !  Cities, 
towns,  and  villages,  with  all  their  pollutions,  are  annihilated ! 
This  great  metropolis — this  now  proud  and  boastful  New- York 
of  ours,  with  all  its  pomp  and  pride  and  arrogance — with 
its  base  and  its  good,  is  remembered  no  more.  It  is  now 
upturned,  and  the  richest  treasure  it  assists  to  yield,  was 
unknown  in  the  foregone  time  of  its  princely  palaces  and  its 
gorgeous  tinselled  temples — it  yields  contentment  and  every 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  275 

virtue  ;  and  now  the  Heart  is  the  Temple  of  God !  The 
whole  face  of  the  earth  is,  or  is  beginning  to  be,  dotted  over 
with  Homes,  where  dwell  Happiness !  Each  has  become  a 
law  unto  himself.  The  defenders  and  the  executors  of  the 
laws  of  the  olden  time  are  no  more  !  and  now  Thy  kingdom 
has  come  !  Such  an  one  would  I  be  if  I  could  ;  such  would  I 
have  my  children ;  such  would  I  have  every  image  of  his  Maker. 

That  it  is  possible  to  have  a  foretaste  of  this  bliss  now,  is 
problematical,  because  man  will  not  realize  its  possibility,  nor 
does  he  wish  it,  so  wedded  is  he  to  his  ways,  and  devilish  as 
he  is,  will  not  permit  its  exhibition  as  long  as  he  can  resist  it. 
But  if  all  who  profess  to  love  God,  and  to  follow  after  Christ, 
felt  the  measure  of  responsibility  resting  upon  them  in  bring- 
ing up  their  children  amid  the  corruptions  of  society,  as  they 
might,  and  would  perceive  the  possibility  of  restricting  their 
desires  to  the  greatest  simplicity,  and  out  of  regard  to  their 
offspring  and  love  to  God,  would  seek  the  retirement,  peace, 
and  purity  which  they  might,  in  seclusion  from  the  great 
world's  vices,  it  would  soon  work  a  great  revolution.  Vice 
and  immorality  would  decrease  for  want  of  fuel.  Isolation  to  a 
reasonable  extent  would  give  time  to  cultivate  the  mind  and 
body,  instead  of  vain  show,  folly,  and  vice.  It  would  also  de- 
crease the  value  of  town  and  city  property,  reduce  the  burdens 
of  those  remaining,  and  give  hope  for  a  gradual  improvement. 
With  better  education,  would  frivolity  lose  its  hold,  fashion's 
supremacy  be  unheard  of,  and  a  wonder-working  change 
effected  for  universal  good,  and  this  good  would  act  and  react 
till  the  final  consummation. 

And,  in  conclusion,  who  sympathizes  with  the  idea  thrown 
out  ?  And  who  will  enlarge  upon  it,  and  present  it  in  all  its 
beauty  of  holiness  ?  It  affords  a  theme  upon  which  the  tongue 
of  eloquence  may  for  ever  dwell,  discovering  new  phases  and 
adaptations  as  each  succeeding  gem  of  thought  hies  after  its 
precursor. — But  who  so  venturesome  as  to  defend  the  present 
state  of  things,  and  impiously  call  it  of  God  ?  None  but  a 
madman,  sure,  and  yet  of  such  there  is  no  end. 


276  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

LINES, 

SUGGESTED  BY  THE  GRAVE  OF  TWO  SISTERS. 
BY   THOMAS   W.    KEKNTE. 


There,  there  they  sleep !  the  dead,  the  dead ! 
Hearts  that  to  being  once  were  wed, 
Whose  pulses  played  as  merrily 
As  any  on  life's  summer  sea : 
But,  cold  for  ever  and  unstrung 
Those  silver  chords  shall  be, 
From  which  young  love  and  passion  wrung 
Bewildering  ecstacy. 

There,  there  they  sleep !  the  dead,  the  dead ! 
Eyes  from  whose  orbs  the  light  has  fled 
That  bound  the  heart  on  which  it  fell 
In  passion's  wild  and  thrilling  spell : 

But,  struck  like  suns  from  Beauty's  sky, 

Their  smiling  reign  is  o'er, 
And  on  their  smitten  spheres  shall  lie 
Night,  night  for  evermore. 

There,  there  they  sleep !  the  dead,  the  dead ! 
Cheeks,  where  the  rose  its  blushes  shed, 
Soft  as  the  light  that  lingers  yet 
Ere  quite  the  ruddy  sun  has  set : 
But,  withered,  faded,  desolate, 

Where  Ruin  holds  his  throne 
They  kiss  the  earth  they  decked  of  late, 
Like  flowers  in  winter  strown. 


There,  there  they  sleep !  the  dead,  the  dead  I 
Forms,  whose  ethereal  beauty  made 
(Such  power  is  woman's,  and  was  theirs) 
The  gazing  crowd  their  worshippers : 
But,  death  has  claimed  his  ancient  right — 

Their  memory  is  ours : — 
The  reign  of  beauty,  brief  and  bright, 
Is  but  the  life  of  flowers. 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  277 


CONSERVATIVE  POWER  OF  THE  PRESS. 


BY  CHAELES  C.  HAZEWELL. 

PRINTERS  have  sometimes  been  accused  of  claiming  for 
their  art  a  greater  degree  of  importance  than  it  deserves,  and  of 
exalting  it  at  the  expense  of  other  arts  and  trades.  There  may 
be  some  little  truth  in  this,  and  the  esprit  de  corps  which  apper- 
tains to  all  professions,  is  not  less  potent  among  us  than  with 
the  members  of  other  callings.  Yet  I  think  reflection  will 
lead  all  to  admit,  that  printing  is  emphatically  the  "art  of  arts," 
and  the  grand  conservator  of  all  that  can  be  achieved  by  the 
intellect  of  man — or,  perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  say,  it  is 
the  means  by  which  profound  results  in  morals  and  physics  are 
secured  in  perpetuity  to  the  world,  and  made  to  descend 
among  men,  instead  of  being  of  temporary  duration,  and  con- 
fined to  the  favored  few,  as  was  the  case,  comparatively  speak- 
ing, before  printing  was  known.  Thus  much  we  have  the 
right  to  claim  for  our  art ;  but  it  would  be  the  very  climax  of 
folly  to  suppose  that  printing  has  created  intellect,  or  that  be- 
fore it  was  spread  among  the  nations  there  was  not  a  high 
degree  of  intellectual  culture.  Not  to  speak  of  the  great  races  of 
antiquity — the  Hellenes,  the  Romans,  the  Egyptians,  the  Phoe- 
nicians, and  other  people  of  the  ancient  world,  even  those 
times  which  we,*  absurdly  enough,  call  the  "dark  ages,'* 
abounded  in  light ;  and  the  human  mind  was  actively  laboring, 
gradually  carrying  forward  the  great  work  of  elevating  the 
race,  and  preparing  the  way  for  its  spread  over  regions  then 
unknown.  The  century  which  preceded  the  invention  of 
printing,  was  remarkable  for  its  intellectual  tendencies,  espe- 
cially in  Italy,  some  of  the  greatest  of  whose  poets  and  prose 
writers  then  lived.  In  fact,  printing  may  be  looked  upon  as 
the  child  of  the  intellect  of  the  middle  ages,  which  prepared 
the  way  for  its  advent,  and  turned  the  human  mind  in  that 


278  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

direction  which  rendered  its  discovery  certain.*  The  mere 
invention  of  paper,  which  was  one  x)f  the  works  of  the  "  dark 
ages/'  was  absolutely  necessary  to  printing ;  an<J  without  it, 
printing  could  have  been  of  small  use  to  the  world.  The 
great  value  of  printing  is  to  be  found — first,  in  its  ability  to  se- 
cure what  is  daily  gained  by  and  for  mankind  ;  and,  secondly, 
from  the  time  at  which  it  was  discovered,  In  regard  to  the 
first,  it  would  seem  to  be  impossible  that  the  world  should 
ever  again  be  reduced  to  a  condition  of  barbarism,  or  lose  the 
works  of  its  master  minds.  Printing  has  made  books  imperish- 
able, "  those  shrines  of  mighty  minds  departed,  in  which  the 
minds  of  the  living  find  their  noblest  inpirations."  No  deluge 
of  barbarians,  like  unto  that  which  overwhelmed  the  Roman 
empire,  and  extinguished  ancient  civilization ;  no  fanaticism, 
like  that  of  the  Saracenic  chief,  which  fed  the  bath-fires  of 
Alexandria  with  the  libraries  of  her  museum  ;  no  devastations, 
similar  to  those  perpetrated  by  the  French  and  Venetians  at  Con- 
stantinople, can  again  be  the  means  of  retarding  the  advance 
of  humanity.  Nor  can  the  works  of  leading  spirits  ever  again 
be  placed  at  the  mercy  of  either  bigoted  or  ignorant  monks, 
the  first  of  whom  once  took  pleasure  in  destroying  the  writings 
of  Greek  and  Roman  scholars,  while  the  second  erased  golden 
periods  from  the  parchments  on  which  they  were  inscribed,  in 
order  to  find  room  to  record  thereon  absurd  and  lying  legends. 
The  press  so  rapidly  multiplies  books,  that  their  preservation 
is  placed  beyond  all  doubt,  and  their  annihilation  rendered  im- 
possible. It  is  true,  that  even  after  the  press  had  commenced 
its  operations,  the  Inquisition  did  succeed  in  rooting  out  some 
few  heretical  productions ;  but  even  that  would  be  now  im- 


*  The  art  of  printing  was  discovered  at  a  moment,  of  all  others,  when  it 
was  most  wanted  ;  and  to  that  necessity  its  invention  may,  in  fact,  be  attri- 
buted. At  any  other  epoch,  even  in  the  days  of  the  greatest  prosperity  of 
Greece  and  Rome,  so  great  and  urgent  necessity  for  multiplying  the  copies  of 
books  was  never  experienced.  At  no  time  had  the  world  possessed  so  con- 
siderable a  number  of  manuscripts,  which  it  was  desirable  to  save  from  the 
destruction  with  which  they  seemed  menaced.  At  no  other  time  could  the 
invention  of  printing  have  been  rewarded  with  more  munificence,  and  been 
more  rapidly  extended. — Sismondi,  Historical  View  of  the  Literature  of  the 
South  of  Europe,  vol.  i.  pp.  308,  309. 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.       •.  4         279 

possible,  the  press  having  proved  too  much  for  that  diabolical 
tribunal,  which  has  eaten  up  the  vital  energies  of  some  states 
that  once  gave  laws  to  the  world.  It  could  destroy  Spain,  and 
measurably  Italy ;  but  the  press  it  could  not  every  where  re- 
strain, much  less  destroy.  Printing  has  also  placed  the  means 
of  instruction  within  the  reach  of  the  great  mass  of  the  people, 
and  has  made  them  substantially  the  only  order  in  almost  every 
civilized  community,  they  having  become  the  first,  the  second, 
and  the  third  estate  in  every  land  in  which  the  press  is  free. 
Whatever  of  intellectual  culture  existed  in  preceding  ages  was 
necessarily  confined  to  a  small  number  of  persons,  who  there- 
fore stood  in  relation  to  the  body  of  the  people  in  pretty  much 
the  same  position  as  that  occupied  by  an  enlightened  priest- 
hood, in  a  country  where  they  monopolize  all  knowledge. 
This  was  inevitable,  as  the  cost  of  producing  books  was  as 
great  as  the  process  was  slow  and  painful.  A  writer  in  Black- 
wood's  Magazine  has  said,  that  that  periodical  could  have  been 
got  up  in  Rome,  in  the  Augustan  age,  at  ten  guineas  a  copy. 
Ten  guineas  are  about  fifty  dollars,  and  we  can  now  buy 
Blackwood  here  for  twenty-five  cents  a  copy,  or  about  the  two 
hundredth  part  of  what  the  same  amount  of  reading  would 
have  cost  a  Roman  nineteen  hundred  years  ago,  and  in  an  age 
which,  for  its  intellectual  eminence,  has  become  one  of  the  stand 
points  of  history.  The  man  who  now  expends  one  cent  a  day 
for  a  daily  journal,  can  have  at  the  end  of  the  year  a  greater 
library  than  even  many  learned  men  owned  but  a  few  cen. 
turies  since.  The  importance  of  printing  in  this  regard  it 
would  be  indeed  difficult  to  exaggerate ;  for  the  popular  rule 
has  now  attained  to  the  dignity  of  an  accomplished  fact,  and 
whatever  elevates  the  popular  mind,  necessarily  tends  to  make 
that  rule  wise,  virtuous,  and  just. 


Mechanics  who  have  risen  to  eminence. — The  stars  of  St. 
Elmo,  whose  light  cheers  the  laboring  man  amid  the  tempests 
of  life. 


280  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 


THE  OLD  RAMAGE  PRESS. 


BY   WM.    OLAND   BOURNE. 


I  saw  a  splendid  pageant  pass, 

With  brilliant  pomp  and  gorgeous  car, 
It  seemed — and  yet  it  scarce  could  be — 

The  triumph  scene  of  bloody  war ; 
The  banners  flaunted  gayly  forth, 

The  gilded  chariots  rolled  along, 
Bright  trophies  flashed  and  gleamed  that  day, 

And  P^ANS  rose  amid  the  throng. 

Not  theirs  the  warrior's  ruthless  heel — 

Not  theirs  the  strife  ensanguined  spoil — 
Not  theirs  the  shriek,  the  cry,  the  pang — 

Not  theirs !  they  were  the  sons  of  toil ! 
A  holier  pageant  kept  they  then — 

Their  triumph  songs  shall  never  cease — 
Their  weapons  loved  devices  bore, 

And  each  declared  its  mission — "  PEACE  !" 

I  looked,  and  SCIENCE  led  the  train, 

Who  dared  the  sun  with  eagle  eye — 
And  ART,  whose  countless  works  appeared, 

Passed  with  her  treasures  proudly  by. 
The  SACRED  NINE  their  graces  gave, 

And  KNOWLEDGE  spoke  with  kindling  tongue, 
While  PROGRESS,  with  her  holy  Zeal, 

Warmed  with  her  fire  the  songs  they  sung. 

I  looked,  and  there  aloft  they  bore 

A  quaint,  antique,  time-honored  thing, 
Which  to  a  radiant  temple  they 

With  measured  tread  were  carrying ; 
And  when  within  its  massive  doors, 

There  slowly  rose  a  pensive  strain, 
Which,  with  a  listening  ear,  methought 

Seemed  like  this  sorrowing  Art-refrain : — 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  281 

"  FAREWELL  !  their  age  has  passed  us  by ! 

The  world's  deep  pulses  quickly  beat, 
And  Art  of  thee  demands  new  power 

To  nerve  her  arm  and  haste  her  feet ; 
The  world's  deep  soul  is  kindling  up, 

And  fires  are  burning  brighter  now 
Than  when,  in  Youth,  thy  triumph  made 

All  Art  and  Science  humbly  bow. 

Farewell !  thy  day  has  glorious  been ! 

It  watched  when  Freedom's  Sun  arose — 
It  beamed  when  Science  plucked  the  skies — 

It  fades,  but  glory  marks  the  close ! 
Farewell !  we  sadly  place  thee  here — 

But  still  thy  Voice  shall  never  die ! 
Ten  thousand  swifter  tongues  declare 

Thy  thrilling  words — they  will  not  lie ! 

Farewell !  thy  place  is  thine  no  more ! 

We  love  thy  name — thy  deeds  shall  live — 
While  Art  with  louder  voice  shall  speak, 

We  to  thy  triumphs  praise  will  give ! 
Farewell !  thy  day  has  glorious  been ! 

It  watched  when  Freedom's  Sun  arose — 
It  beamed  when  Science  plucked  the  skies — 

It  fades,  and  glory  marks  the  close  i" 

Beneath  that  temple's  lofty  dome 

They  reared  the  old,  time-honored  thing, 
And  gave  to  that  the  proudest  place 

Round  which  a  thousand  memories  cling ; 
And  Science  bows  with  treasures  bright, 

And  Art,  who  sees  it  none  the  less, 
And  Knowledge,  and  the  Muses,  bring 

Their  homage  to  THE  RAMAGE  PRESS. 


LOWYII.LE,  October  16,  1849. 


When  prosperity  was  well  mounted,  she  let  go  the  bridle, 
and  soon  came  tumbling  out  of  the  saddle. — Poor  Richard. 


30 


282  THE 


0  GIVE  ME  BACK  MY  RUGGED  HOME, 


BY   EDWAED    A.    M'LAUGHLEtf. 


Oh,  give  me  back  my  rugged  home, 
The  moss-clad  rocks,  the  crispy  rills, 
The  honeysuckle's  vernal  bloom, 
The  birchen-wood,  and  pine-clad  hills : 
The  little  meadow  smiling  there 
In  verdure,  tipped  with  morning  dew, 
Where  glows  the  golden  lily  fair, 
And  wakes  the  violet's  eye  of  blue. 

There  is  a  charm — a  brighter  charm 
Which  calls  the  wearied  spirit  home, 
Than  ever  did  these  valleys  warm, 
To  tempt  my  careless  feet  to  roam : 
Their  smoothness  pains  the  eye  to  see — 
Their  very  blooms  my  senses  pall, 
The  rude,  rough  glen — the  birchen  tree, 
The  honeysuckle's  worth  them  all. 

Though  fair  the  gay  magnolia  tower 
In  all  the  pomp  of  southern  bloom, 
The  locust  me  doth  pleasure  more, 
Whose  snowy  blossoms  breathe  perfume 
O'er  the  young  rills,  that  rippling  flow, 
Soft  as  the  sedge-crowned  Naiad's  song, 
But  when  the  hills  stream  down  below, 
They  leap,  they  whirl,  they  foam  along. 

Oh,  there  is  music  in  the  deep 
Toned  melody  of  foaming  rill, 
High  o'er  whose  bed  the  craggy  steep 
Nods  its  green  plumes  of  hemlock  still : 
While  oh  its  banks  the  ivy  grows, 
And  climbs  along  the  rocky  wall, 
Beside  whose  base  the  brier-rose 
Smiles  on  each  little  grassy  knoll. 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  283 

Smoothly  thy  silver  waters  glide, 
Ohio,  through  a  verdant  vale : 
But  I  love  not  the  sleeping  tide, 
That  never  wakes  to  meet  the  gale : 
Thy  banks  are  tame— artistic  bloom 
Hath  made  the  forest  glories  less : 
Our  Housatonic's  still  in  gloom, 
And  riots  in  his  native  dress. 

Not  such  a  gloom  as  darkly  lowers, 
When  night  descends  on  ebon  wing, 
But  such  as  veils  the  highland  bowers, 
At  noontide  in  the  genial  Spring : 
,  And  there  the  scarlet  juniper 
The  vine-wreathed  precipice  bends  o'er, 
With  cedar,  spruce,  and  pine,  and  fir, 
To  canopy  the  river's  roar. 

Adown  yon  dell,  where  the  sweet  fern 
Perfumes  the  flying  Summer  breeze, 
That  musical,  at  every  turn 
Rustles  among  the  aspen  trees ; 
Oft  was  I  wont  to  wend  along, 
And  gather  black-caps  all  the  way, 
Still  humming  some  unmeaning  song, 
Till  twilight  kissed  departing  day. 

Then  give  me  back  my  rugged  home, 
The  moss-clad  rocks,  the  crispy  rills, 
The  honeysuckle's  vernal  bloom, 
The  birchen-wood,  and  pine-clad  hills : — 
The  little  meadow  smiling  there 
In  verdure,  tipped  with  morning  dew, 
Where  glows  the  golden  lily  fair, 
And  wakes  the  violet's  eye  of  blue. 


A  change  of  fortune  hurts  a  wise  man  no  more  than  a 
change  in  the  moon. 

He  that  has  a  trade  has  an  office  of  profit  and  honor. — 
Poor  Richard. 


284  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK 

\ 


EDWARD    CARLYLE. 


BY   JAMES    J.    BEENTON. 

/ 

ON  the  banks  of  one  of  those  beautiful  streams  in  Vermont 
that  flow  into  Lake  Champlain,  stands,  or  did  stand  some 
years  since,  an  elegant  cottage,  the  residence  of  Henry  Hos- 
tine,  one  of  the  most  respectable  and  wealthy  men  in  the 
State.  His  daughter  Agnes  was  considered  the  belle  of  the 
place  ;  and  if  virtue,  intelligence,  and  loveliness,  constitute 
the  predominant  qualities  of  such  a  character,  she  was  richly 
entitled  to  the  appellation.  Many  an  anxious  admirer  at- 
tended her  evening  parties,  happy  to  attract  her  slightest 
attention.  Among  these,  and  the  most  favored,  was  Edward 
Carlyle,  a  young  man  of  humble  birth,  but  of  rare  and  ac- 
complished talents.  Thrown  upon  the  world  in  early  youth, 
without  father  or  mother,  he  felt  that  nothing  but  indomitable 
courage  and  persevering  energy  could  ever  lift  him  from  the 
sphere  in  which  he  had  been  cast.  But  he  possessed  a  strong 
mind,  which,  united  with  good  bodily  health,  and  good  reso- 
lutions, enabled  him  to  distance  all  competitors  in  the  circum- 
scribed course  of  literature  extant  at  that  time  in  the  place  of 
his  nativity.  By  hard  labor,  both  of  mind  and  body,  he  had 
acquired  considerable  distinction,  and  no  little  of  this  world's 
goods.  There  was  one  drawback  from  all  this.  In  the  edu- 
cation of  his  mind,  he  had  neglected  the  more  valuable  part 
of  his  being,  the  moral  culture  of  his  heart.  Not  that  he 
could  be  charged  with  the  commission  of  crime :  his  conduct 
in  life  thus  far  was  as  irreproachable  as  that  of  most  men; 
but  there  was  an  absence  of  active  virtues  in  his  character — 
a  want  of  sound  morality  in  his  conversation.  Perhaps  this 
was  owing  to  the  absence  of  maternal  influence.  No  fond 
mother  had  taught  his  infant  lips  to  breathe  a  prayer ;  for  alas ! 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  285 

that  mother  slept  in  death  a  few  hours  after  Edward  breathed 
the  first  breath  of  life.  Still,  as  we  have  said,  he  was  held 
in  great  estimation  by  his  neighbors ;  and  if  rumor  spoke  true, 
the  gentle  Agnes  did  not  spurn  his  love.  Her  father,  indeed, 
was  not  so  well  pleased  with  him;  but  fathers  are  not  always 
disposed  to  interfere  with  the  pleasures  or  happiness  of  their 
daughters.  Moreover,  if  a  father  has  but  one,  that  one  is 
very  certain,  generally  speaking,  of  being  petted  and  spoiled 
to  some  extent.  So  it  was  with  Agnes.  Perfect  mistress  of 
her  time  and  occupation,  she  spent  many  days  in  free  and 
joyous  companionship  with  her  young  admirer;  and  perhaps 
before  others  were  aware  of  the  progress  of  their  youthful 
affections,  they  had  become  too  much  attached  to  each  other 
to  be  separated  by  any  ordinary  lover  who  might  be  dis- 
posed to  try  his  hand  in  the  game  of  Cupid.  Others  there 
were,  however,  who  would  not  submit  tamely  and  see  this 
parvenu  bear  off  the  most  "eligible  match."  It  was  an  insult 
to  hereditary  wealth,  to  see  it  removed  from  its  accustomed 
channels  to  fertilize  the  habitations  of  the  vulgar.  It  was  not 
to  be  endured,  that  the  fairest  maid  of  the  village  was  to  be 
united  in  marriage  to  one  who  had  been  an  apprentice  in  the 
very  town  of  her  birth-place.  It  was  an  insult  to  young  men 
born  to  fortunes,  that  such  a  scene  in  real  life  should  be 
enacted  in  their  midst.  And  it  must  be  prevented.  So  at 
least  reasoned  many  of  the  wealthier  young  men.  But  how  ? 
Here  was  the  difficulty.  Agnes  was  not  like  other  females  ; 
she  would  not  submit  to  dictation.  She  would  have  her  own 
way;  and  that  way  was  evidently  leading  to  the  hymeneal- 
altar,  with  Edward  as  the  consort.  And  if  any  thing  was  to 
be  done,  now  was  the  time ;  there  was  no  room  for  delay. 
Jealousy  and  envy,  two  of  the  worst  of  human  passions,  were 
busily  at  work ;  and  when  they  have  their  opportunity,  woe  to 
the  subject  on  whom  their  vengeance  falls. 

It  has  been  said  that  "  man  is  not  wise  at  all  times  ;"  and 
we  are  of  those  who  believe  in  the  truth  of  the  apothegm. 
Edward,  although  he  perceived  the  gathering  discontent  of  his 
associates,  enjoyed  too  much  happiness  in  the  society  of  his 
chosen  one,  to  give  himself  much  trouble  about » the  matter  ; 
and  possessed  too  much  confidence  in  the  strength  of  his  own 


286  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

powers  of  mind  and  body,  to  fear  any  thing  in  the  shape  of 
humanity.  He  freely  conversed  with  them  about  his  affairs,  as 
he  would  with  any  bosom  companion.  This,  although  a  com- 
mon circumstance,  is  nevertheless  an  error.  In  every  human 
being  there  is  some  spot  more  vulnerable  than  another ;  and 
when  a  crafty  person  is  determined  to  ferret  out  that  spot,  he 
will  eventually  accomplish  his  object. 

The  individual  selected  to  overthrow  the  fair  hopes  and 
bright  prospects  of  our  hero,  and  if  possible  to  overwhelm  him 
in  utter  misery  and  disgrace,  was  an  adept  in  the  business 
seldom  surpassed  among  the  heartless  and  vile.  Of  smooth 
address  and  winning  manners,  he  would  ingratiate  himself  in 
the  good  opinion  of  another  for  the  very  purpose  of  accom- 
plishing his  ruin. 

It  was  a  dark  and  stormy  night  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
month  of  February,  in  the  year  18 — ;  the  wind  that  had  come 
moaning  from  the  Green  Mountains  during  the  day,  now 
howled  with  terrific  fury,  driving  the  snow  and  rain  and  sleet 
before  it.  The  old  window  shutters  rattled,  and  the  wide 
chimney  roared  as  the  blazing  flames  whirled  up  it  from  the 
logs  that  Edward  had  piled  upon  the  hearth.  Seated  on  a 
settee,  enjoying  the  warmth  of  his  room,  and  enraptured  with 
a  letter  he  had  just  been  perusing,  he  enjoyed  a  degree  of  hap- 
piness felt  only  by  a  successful  lover.  And  well  he  might. 
That  letter  was  the  crowning  of  his  bliss.  It  was  an  assurance 
from  the  lovely  Agnes,  endorsed  by  her  father,  that  he  was  a 
welcome  suitor  at  Mr.  Hostine's.  For  the  third  or  fourth  time 
he  was  reading  it;  when  amid  a  pause  of  the  tempest  he 
distinguished  a  knock  at  his  door.  Shading  the  candle  with 
his  hand  he  promptly  replied  to  the  summons,  and  admitted  a 
gentleman  dripping  from  the  effects  of  the  storm. 

"  Is  it  possible,  my  dear  Charles,  that  this  can^  be  you,  in 
such  a  night  as  this  ?"  said  Edward,  as  he  reached  him  a  chair 
and  placed  it  before  the  fire. 

"  Nothing  less,  I  assure  you,"  replied  Charles,  as  he  stretched 
himself  before  the  genial  heat,  and  looked  around  at  the  com- 
fortable abode.  "  I  have  been  out  on  some  business  that  re- 
quired attention,  and  got  caught  in  the  storm ;  so  I  made  bold 
to  call  on  you — and  if  you  have  no  other  engagement  on  hand 


THE'  PRINTER'S     BOOK.  287 

1  would  be  happy  to  make  a  night  of  it.  A  man  like  you  has 
always  on  hand  a  plenty  of  brandy  and  other  appliances  to 
soften  the  rigor  of  a  mountain  storm.  And  just  at  present  the 
-  equilibrium  of  fluids  is  destroyed.  I  have  more  outside  than 
in.  Eh,  friend,  what  say  you  ?" 

Late  that  night  Edward  fell  asleep  for  the  first  time  in  a 
state  of  beastly  intoxication.  The  arch  deceiver  had  com- 
menced his  work.  % 

We  haye  not  room  to  trace  the  progress  of  our  hero  as  he 
descended  the  scale  of  life,  nor  to  mark  the  many  resolutions 
that  he  made  to  retrace  his  steps.  Resolutions  that  his  friend 
took  care  should  not  be  kept.  Were  we  writing  a  novel  we 
might  mention  many  a  scene  that  "  would  harrow  up  the  soul 
and  make  the  hair  stand  on  end  like  the  quills  of  the  fretted 
porcupine,"  but  our  purpose  is  quite  different.  We  are  nar- 
rating a  tale  of-truth,  and  the  limits  of  this  work  compel  us  to 
be  brief  in  our  story.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  in  a  few  weeks 
the  degraded  man  was  led  by  his  friend  Charlie  to  the  gaming 
table,  from  which  he  rose  not  only  deprived  of  all  his  property, 
but  involved  in  debt.  Horror-stricken  at  his  own  folly  and 
madness,  for  a  short  time  he  remained  perfectly  sober,  but  did 
not  dare  to  enter  the  presence  of  the  only  being  who  still  pre- 
served an  attachment  for  him.  Degraded  as  she  knew  him  to 
be,  she  ceased  not  to  cherish  his  memory  in  her  heart  of  hearts, 
and  daily  did  she  pray  that  he  might  turn  from  his  evil  habits, 
and  redeem  the  character  he  had  so  foolishly  forfeited. 

Creditors  began  to  dog  his  footsteps  wherever  he  went. 
Debt,  that  moral  incubus,  was  pressing  heavily  on  that  mind 
which  was  already  partially  paralyzed  and  benumbed  by  intox- 
icating drinks,  and  no  door  of  escape  seemed  to  open  to  him. 
Charlie  was  frequently  with  his  friend  "to  cheer  him  up/' 
as  he  termed  it.  One  evening,  after  being  more  than  usually 
troubled  by  those  to  whom  he  was  indebted,  he  was  sitting  in 
his  cheerless  room  wrapt  in  sad  and  painful  thought,  when 
his  friend  dropped  in. 

"  I  have  just  seen  that  angelic  Agnes,"  was  his  first  salute, 
"  and  by  Jove  she  loves  you  to  distraction.  Rouse  yourself, 
man !  Why,  if  I  were  as  good  a  penman  as  you  are,  the  bank 
of  B should  not  contain  all  her  father's  money.  Even 


288  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

if  the  trick  were  discovered,  she  would  pay  it  herself  rather 
than  you  should  suffer."  The  insinuation  here  intended  came 
at  first  like  an  ice-bolt ;  but  by  constantly  indulging  in  the 
thought,  the  monster  which  he  might  have  strangled  at  its 
birth,  took  complete  possession  of  him.  The  signature  of  his 
intended  bride's  father  which  was  at  the  bottom  of  that  letter, 
was  traced  by  means  of  a  pane  of  glass  and  appended  to  a 
note,  and  the  money  obtained  at  the  bank.  The  last  seal 
was  now  set  upon  the  intended  victim.  From  vjce  he  had 
fallen  into  crime,  and  crime  too  which  foreshadowed  no- 
thing but  degradation  and  a  prison.  Time  ran  on ;  the  note 
became  due  and  was  protested,  and  pronounced  a  forgery. 
His  friend,  Charlie,  was  the  first  to  make  known  to  Mr.  Hos- 
tine  the  guilty  person.  Edward  fled !  For  a  long  time  no 
trace  of  the  fugitive  could  be  obtained.  At  last  a  letter  for 
Miss  Agnes  Hostine  was  received  at  the  post-office. 

Mr.  Hostine,  suspecting  its  author,  opened  it  and  discover- 
ed the  abode  of  the  guilty  Edward.  In  vain  were  the  prayers 
and  entreaties  of  his  daughter  to  spare  him.  With  intuitive 
precision,  characteristic  of  woman,  she  had  perceived  the 
reason  of  his  downfall;  and  although  a  felon,  she  only  thought  of 
his  love  for  her,  and  wept  that  a  mind  naturally  so  strong 
could  be  overcome  by  artifices  so  weak  and  contemptible. 
She  believed,  and  believed  truly,  that  his  nature  was  not  cor- 
rupt ;  that  goaded  to  madness  by  pretended  friends,  he  had 
committed  the  rash  act,  with  the  hope  that  he  might  prevent 
its  becoming  known,  by  earning  the  amount  before  the -note 
became  due.  These  arguments  she  presented  to  her  father 
with  all  the  eloquence  and  pathos  of  impassioned  love ;  but 
her  father  was  obdurate.  Although  he  might  pity  the  crim- 
inal, and  sympathize  with  his  daughter  in  her  unfortunate 
attachment,  still  the  honest  conviction  of  his  own  conscience 
would  not  allow  guilt  to  go  unpunished,  and  therefore  he  took 
the  proper  measures  to  have  him  arrested  and  brought  to 
trial.  ***** 

At  one  of  the  settlements  in  the  valley  of  the  Susquehan- 
na,  in  Broome  county,  a  party7  of  men  disguised  as  Indians 
might  be  seen,  like  the  followers  of  Roderic  Dhu,  peering 
above  the  bushes  adjoining  the  main  road.  A  report  had  been 
circulated  that  the  sheriff  and  his  posse  were  coming  to  eject 


THE 


BOOK.  289 


or  otherwise  molest  some  of  the  honorable  body  of  squatters, 
who  had  taken  possession  of  the  uncultivated  and  unclaimed 
tracts  of  land  in  that  fertile  region  ;  and  resistance  by  force, 
on  their  part,  had  drawn  them  together.  Presently  three  men 
on  horseback  were  seen  approaching.  To  rush  upon  them, 
throw' them  from  their  horses  and  gag  them,  was  the  work  of 
but  a  moment,  and  before  the  new  comers  had  time  to  defend 
themselves,  they  were  in  the  hands  of  men  desperate  enough  to 
perform  any  deed,  however  atrocious. 

A  mock  court  was  speedily  formed,  before  which  the 
victims  were  arraigned,  found  guilty,  and  sentenced  to  an 
application  of  tar  and  feathers,  and  to  be  rode  out  of  the 
county  upon  something  less  easy  than  the  ordinary  vehicles  of 
transportation.  Happily  for  them,  while  preparations  were 
making  to  carry  out  these  high-handed  measures,  a  gentleman 
of  calm  and  thoughtful  appearance  came  by,  and  was  attract- 
ed by  the  novelty  of  the  circumstances  to  inquire  into  the 
meaning  of  so  extraordinary  a  spectacle.  He  neded  but  one 
glance  to  ascertain  the  object  of  their  visit,  for  in  one  of  the 
three  prisoners,  he  discovered  the  sheriff  of  his  native  county. 

With  an  energy  and  an  eloquence  never  before  heard  by  that 
company,  he  laid  before  them  the  consequences  of  the  indignity 
and  outrage  they  had  already  committed  upon  inoffensive  men, 
and  the  severe  punishment  that  would  be  meted  to  them 
should  they  put  into  execution  the  barbarous  sentence.  That 
the  report  that  the  object  of  the  captives  was  to  disturb  their 
quiet,  was  entirely  false,  and  that  he  would  guaranty,  if  they 
would  set  the  men  at  liberty,  that  they  would  immediately 
leave  the  neighborhood. 

The  voice  of  Edward  Carlyle,  for  my  readers  have  already 
discovered  him,  soothed  their  turbulent  spirits  at  once.  It  is 
true,  they  had  not  known  him  long ;  almost  a  stranger,  by  the 
suavity  of  his  manners,  the  modesty  of  his  deportment,  and 
the  good  conduct  of  his  daily  life,  he  had  won  the  regard  of 
that  busy  and  restless  community,  and  his  word  was  like  the 
response  of  an  oracle  in  which  they  had  perfect  confidence. 
The  strangers  were  set  a*t  liberty,  and  their  deliverer  surren- 
dered himself  a  prisoner  to  the  officers  he  had  just  saved. 
The  squatters  could  not  comprehend  so  singular  an  arrest,  and 
had  not  Edward  assured  them  there  was  nothing  wrong,  they 


290  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

would  have  carried  out  their  original  designs,  with  severe 
amendments. 

With  perfect  resignation,  Edward  submitted  to  his  fate, 
and  during  the  whole  journey,  no  allusion  was  made  to  the 
subject  that  engrossed  the  attention  of  all.  Gratitude  for  their 
deliverance,  and  admiration  for  the  magnanimity  of  their  pris- 
oner, compelled  the  officers  to  treat  him  more  like  a  companion 
than  a  person  to  whom  the  prisoner's  doom  was  about  to  be 
awarded,  and  it  was  not  until  they  arrived  at  the  jail,  that  a 
distinction  might  be  perceived  by  any  traveller  they  might 
chance  to  encounter. 

Who  can  tell  the  pain  and  anguish  of  a  noble  mind  bowed 
down  with  a  sense ^ of  guilt?  The  ever-restless  thought,  the 
busy,  working  imagination,  the  remorseless  gnawings  of  an 
awakened  conscience,  constitute  a  punishment  almost  too  great 
for  human  nature  to  endure.  Shut  up  in  his  narrow  cell, 
all  the  follies  and  frivolities  of  youth,  all  his  misspent  time, 
his  sins  of  omission  and  commission,  his  intemperance  and 
gaming,  passed  in  review  before  his  mind,  like  the  changing 
scenes  of  a  kaleidoscope.  The  past  presented  a  gloomy  and 
cheerless  prospect,  with  but  one  bright  spot,  the  love  of 
Agnes,  to  redeem  the  picture.  The  future,  covered  with  a 
cloud  too  dark  and  dense,  even  for  a  ray  of  hope  to  penetrate. 

The  day  of  trial  arrived ;  the  jury  were  empannelled, 
the  witnesses  examined,  and  a  verdict  of  guilty  rendered, 
and  not  a  muscle  of  the  prisoner's  face  was  seen  to  move. 
Among  the  vast  multitude  assembled  to  watch  the  progress  of 
the  trial,  there  was  no  eye  more  brilliant,  no  countenance  less 
confused,  no  form  more  upright  than  Edward's.  It  seemed  as 
if  a  weight  was  taken  from  his  shoulders,  which  heretofore 
had  been  pressing  him  to  the  earth.  Sallust  says,  "  that  the 
mind  governs  the  body,"  and  in  this  instance  we  had  a  re- 
markable proof  of  the  truth  of  the  proposition.  Upon  the 
question,  what  he  had  to  say  why  the  sentence  of  the  law 
should  not  be  pronounced  against  him,  he  arose,  and  after  a 
few  remarks,  said,  "  In  regard  to  the  justness  of  the  punish- 
ment you  are  about  to  inflict,  I  have  no  fault  to  find.  I  ac- 
cept it  as  a  part  of  the  satisfaction  I  should  make  to  the 
laws  of  my  country,  which  I  have  violated.  I  feel  that  the 
disgrace  lies  in  the  commission  of  crime,  not  in  suffering  the 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  291 

penalty  that  men  have  declared  ^  against  the  transgressor. 
And  I  shall  go  hence,  perfectly  satisfied  with  every  thing 
that  has  been  done  by  the  court  and  jury.  I  might  put  in  a 
plea  in  mitigation  of  my  offence,  were  I  not  convinced  that 
such  a  plea  ought  not  to  be  received.  The  all-bountiful 
Giver  of  every  blessing  never  endowed  man  with  the  high 
attributes  of  mind,  that  he  should  destroy,  or  even  impair  for 
a  moment  this  invaluable  gift,  by  means  of  intoxicating 
liquors.  The  crime  has  been  committed,  the  guilty  person 
discovered,  and  let  him  expiate  his  evil  deeds  agreeably  to 
the  law  and  usages  of  his  country.  I  ask  no  mitigation  of 
punishment." 

So  profound  was  the  attention,  so  deep  the  silence  of  that 
crowded  court-room,  that  the  falling  of  a  pin  might  have 
been  heard  by  all,  when  Edward  sat  down. 

In  consequence  of  the  prisoner's  good  conduct  towards 
the  sheriff,  and  his  previous  good  character,  the  lightest  pun- 
ishment was  inflicted  upon  him ;  two  years  of  hard  labor  in 
the  state  prison. 

There  is  something  holy  in  the  love  of  woman  ;  some- 
thing that  hallows  and  consecrates  the  being  who  is  the  ob- 
ject of  it.  Many  a  man  has  been  reclaimed  by  its  softening 
and  plastic  influences  ;  and  may  we  not  suppose  that  it  was 
the  secret  working  of  this  mysterious  passion,  that  helped  to 
elevate  the  character  of  Edward,  surrounded  as  he,  was  by 
felons  and  the  offscouring  of  society  ?  We  say  helped  to  ele- 
vate, for  it  is  an  interesting  fact,  that  he  was  of  great  and  im- 
portant service  in  regulating  the  conduct  of  that  abandoned 
set,  and  in  assisting  the  keepers  in  tfie  maintenance  of  order. 
Prompt  in  obedience,  and  untiring  in  labor,  his  example  was 
salutary  in  a  great  degree  ;  and  on  the  Sabbath,  he  passed 
his  time  in  reading.  This  was  an  interval  of  sweet  repose. 
His  deportment  had  attracted  the  attention  of  the  officiating 
minister,  and  often,  after  divine  service  was  over,  did  he  labor 
to  bring  the  penitent  to  the  foot  of  the  Cross. 

Mankind,  in  general,  are  too  apt  to  regard  with  scorn  the 
individual  who  is  sunk  in  degradation  and  crime,  when  per- 
haps that  individual  might,  from  an  expression  of  sympathy, 
a  word  of  advice  or  admonition,  a  look  of  kindness  or  com- 
miseration, turn  from  his  wickedness,  and  reform. 


THE       PRINTER      S       BOOK. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  N.  was  admirably  adapted  to  the  sacred 
functions  of  his  calling.  His  love  for  the  cause  of  his  Re- 
deemer prompted  him  to  forego  many  comforts,  to  sacrifice  his 
ease,  and  to  spend  his  time  for  the  spiritual  benefit  of  fallen 
men.  And  towards  Edward  Carlyle  he  felt  an  attachment 
more  powerful  than  he  had  experienced  for  any  other  stranger ; 
besides,  he  had  become  acquainted  with  Agnes,  and  was  often 
intrusted  by  her  with  messages  for  her  unfortunate  lover.  No 
wonder  he  was  able  to  mould  him,  armed  with  such  powerful 
allies.  *  *  *  * 

Death  knows  no  distinction  between  the  rich  and  the  poor, 
the  bond  and  the  free.  All  go  hence,  to  feed  his  insatiate 
maw.  The  father  of  Agnes  paid  the  debt  of  nature,  and  the 
stricken  girl  was  an  orphan.  The  little  cottage,  with  its  ivy 
and  its  white  jasmine  peeping  out  among  other  plants,  must  be 
abandoned  ;  strangers  must  fill  those  pleasant  rooms,  and  look 
out  upon  those  gravelled  walks,  and  listen  to  the  swallows  that 
twitter  around  the  chimney,  for  the  one  who  had  held  it  as  his 
own  was  removed  from  it  for  ever ;  and  others  were  coming, 
with  rolls  of  parchment  with  great  seals  to  them,  and  notices 
of  foreclosure  of  mortgage,  and  other  lawyer-like  terms,  as 
unintelligible  to  Agnes  as  the  language  of  an  Osage.  The 
terrible  truth  now  became  known,  that  her  father  had  lost  all 
his  property  in  a  speculation  in  which  he  had  been  engaged, 
through,  the  flattering  but  false  statements  of  Charlie.  She 
had  no  alternative  but  to  submit. 

It  was  a  beautiful  evening  in  the  middle  of  June  ;  the  air 
came  loaded  with  the  perfume  of  nature's  choicest  flowers  ; 
the  full  moon  rose  above  the  Green  Mountains,  shedding  a  soft 
and  mellowed  light  upon  the  bold  and  picturesque  landscape. 
All  was  silent  except  the  plaintive  notes  of  a  whip-poor-will, 
which  fell  with  a  melancholy  cadence  on  the  ears  of  Agnes 
Hostine,  as  she  sat  at  the  open  window  of  her  parlor,  listlessly 
gazing  upon  the  obscure  prospect  around  her.  It  had  been  a 
day  of  great  grief  and  excitement.  Every  article  to  which  she 
could  not  prove  title  had  been  sold  at  auction,  and  the  prying 
eyes  of  the  inquisitive  had  invaded  the  sanctity  of  her  most 
private  apartments.  The  excitement,  however,  had  passed  off 
as  the  last  lingerers  had  taken  their  departure.  Her  plans  for 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  293 

the  future  were  definitely  settled.  Her  housekeeper  had 
packed  her  trunks,  and  made  all  the  arrangements  for  a  speedy 
removal  to  the  house  of  her  uncle,  some  miles  distant.  This 
was  the  last  night  she  would  spend  in  the  home  of  her  child- 
hood, and  as  she  sat  at  the  open  casement,  buried  in  painful 
and  melancholy  thought,  she  perceived  not,  for  some  time,  that 
the  eyes  of  a  stranger  were  fastened  upon  her.  His  appear- 
ance was  more  calculated  to  alarm  than  to  please  a  lady  at 
that  hour,  in  that  lonely  situation.  His  beard  nearly  covered 
his  whole  face,  and  his  dress  marked  the  appearance  of  one 
who  had  passed  a  long  and  dusty  journey. 

"  Pardon,  sweet  lady,  a  stranger,  who,  enticed  by  the  beauty 
of  the  evening,  has  strolled  to  your  cottage.  For  a  few  brief 
moments  I  have  been  a  silent  witness  of  your  reverie,  and  it 
grieves  me  indeed,  to  see  that  one  so  young  and  lovely  should 
have  cause  for  sorrow.  Time  was,"  continued  he,  "  when  I 
was  unhappy ;  but  the  realities  of  life  have  proved  their  emp- 
tiness, and  have  led  me  to  seek  for  something  more  worthy, 
more  substantial  than  the  fleeting  pleasures  of  earthly  things. 
A  few  years  ago  I  resided  in  this  vicinity.  When  I  removed 
to  another  part  of  the  State,  I  left  a  jewel  in  this  neighbor- 
hood, and  have  returned  to  see  if  I  can  recover  it." 

The  astonishment  of  Agnes  increased.  "  Your  name  ?" 
"  Edward."  In  an  instant  his  false  beard  and  whiskers  were 
removed,  and  the  long  separated  lovers  rushed  into  each 
other's  arms. 

That  night  the  clergyman  of  the  village  performed  a  mar- 
riage ceremony,  and  Agnes  removed  from  her  native  place. 
***** 

A  few  years  since,  business  called  us  to  the  State  of , 

and  while  passing  through  a  beautiful  section  of  country, 
we  were  struck  with  the  appearance  of  an  elegant  mansion, 
surrounded  with  the  choicest  variety  of  evergreens  and  shrub- 
bery. Using  a  traveller's  privilege,  we  stopped,  and  in  the 
wealthy  and  hospitable  owner'  we  found  Edward  Carlyle  and 
his  lovely  and  accomplished  wife.  One  bright-eyed  daughter, 
reflecting  the  features  of  its  mother,  graced  their  home,  and 
gave  a  charm  to  their  quiet  family  circle.  "  It  was  to  the 
want  of  a  mother's  love  and  a  mother's  holy  influence,"  re- 


294  THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK. 

marked  the  happy  Edward,  "  that  I  attribute  my  disgraceful 
fall ;  it  was  also  the  constant  and  sincere  affection  of  her 
who  is  now  my  partner  in  life,  that  under  a  wise  Providence 
enabled  me  to  redeem  my  character.  Let  no  one  despair  in 
life,  who  has  the  unpurchasable  devotion  of  one  virtuous  wo- 
man. The  Bank  of  B has  been  indemnified  with  principal 

and  interest.  And  here,  secure  in  the  affections  of  our  neigh- 
bors, we  are  contented  and  happy,  and  do  all  the  good  we  can 
to  our,  fellow  creatures." 


YIELD    NOT. 

BY  W.    C.    TOBEY. 

Nay,  yield  not  to  thoughts  so  sad : 

Though  all  is  dark  and  gloomy  now, 
Hope  still  is  lingering,  to  glad 

The  heart  and  light  the  brow. 
The  world  was  made  for  all — for  us, 

Though  some  find  more  of  night  than  day ; 
Yet,  is  it  well  to  murmur  thus  ? 
Say,  is  it,  cousin  May  ? 

Though  sad  our  lot,  let's  still  bear  up 

Against  the  frowns  and  slights  of  Fate : — 
Misfortune  fills  her  bitter  cup 

Alike  for  small  and  great. 
I've  seen,  through  clouds  of  darkest  hue, 
A  rainbow  ray  shine  bright  and  warm, 
And  with  its  sheen  of  gold  and  blue 
Illumine  earth  and  storm. 

Hope  on — trust  on ;  have  faith  in  God 

For  brighter  days  and  happier  hours  ; 
Chide  not  the  justly  chast'ning  rod — 

Earth  still  has  buds  and  flowers. 
The  clouds  that  gather  round  us  now 

One  smile  from  Fortune  will  destroy, 
And  light  the  sorrow-saddened  brow 
With  happiness  and  joy. 


THE     PRINTER'S     BOOK.  295 


c  i  N  a  u  A  , 

ONE  OF  THE  CAPTORS  OF  THE  SPANISH  SHIP  AMISTAD. 
"Fiat  Justitia,"  etc. 

BY   THOMAS   W.   RENNIE. 


Had  the  pale  denizen  of  a  harder  clime 

Than  that  which  stamped  thee  with  thine  ebon  hue, 

Done  as  thou  didst  to  win  thy  liberty, 
How  would  the  world  have  hailed  the  deed  sublime, 

And  with  acclaim  awarded  honors  due ! 

And  wherefore  should  its  judgment  partial  be  ? 
What  Heaven  has  made  just,  is  justice  still, 
In  black  or  white,  in  spite  of  human  will. 
Self-interest  and  pride  may  seek  to  change 
Its  quality,  and  to  confine  its  range : 

Yet  all  in  vain, — its  sway  no  limit  knows, 
But,  like  heaven's  bright,  all-circling  firmament, 

Its  equal,  broad  dominion  doth  enclose 
All  people,  in  one  social  empire  blent. 

Unhappy  stranger !  what  is  thy  offence, 
That  thou  shouldst  suffer  thus  the  violence 
Of  bonds  ? — Thou  slayedst  thine  oppressors :  so 
The  fathers  did  of  those  that  mock  thy  woe. 
They  slew  them,  and  their  children  proudly  tell 
How  by  their  arms  the  loathed  oppressors  fell. 
They  fought — as  thou  didst  fight — for  liberty : 
In  them  'twas  virtue — was  it  less  in  thee  ? 
Who  blames  the  noble  Brutus,  that  he  laid 
Rome's  tyrant  prostrate  with  his  ready  blade  ? 
Not  one ;  and  lo,  the  Roman  has  a  name 
Among  the  brightest  on  the  scroll  of  fame. 
Who  then  shall  censure  thee  ?     Ah,  only  he 
Who  is  less  fit  than  thou  for  liberty. 


296  THE     PRINTER'S     BOO 


THE  OLD  PRINTER:- 

SOMETHING  OF  A  FANCY  SKETCH,  BUT  TOO  NEAR  THE  TRUTH  TO 
MAKE  MUCH  FUN  OF. 

BY   P.   B.   STTTLLABEB. 


I  see  him  at  his  case, 

With  his  anxious,  cheerless  face, 

Worn  and  brown ; 
And  the  types'  unceasing  click, 
As  they  drop  within  his  stick, 
Seems  of  Life's  old  clock  the  tick 

Running  down. 

Years,  years  away  have  flown, 
And  the  printer  long  I've  known, 

Boy  and  man ; 
Time  was  when  step  elate 
Distinguished  his  gait, 
And  the  form  was  tall  and  straight 

We  now  scan. 

I've  seen  him  day  by  day, 
As  he  passed  along  the  way 

To  his  toil ; 

He  labored  might  and  main, 
A  living  scant  to  gain, 
And  some  interest  small  attain 

In  the  soil ; 

And  hope  was  high  at  first, 
And  the  golden  cheat  he  nursed, 

Till  he  found 
That  hope  was  but  a  glare 
In  a  cold  and  frosty  air, 
And  the  promise,  pictured  fair, 

Barren  ground. 

He  ne'er  was  reckoned  bad, 
But  I've  seen  him  smile  right  glad 
At "  leaded"  woes, 


THE    PRINTER'S     BOOK.  297 

While  a  corresponding  frown 
Would  spread  his  features  round 
Where  virtue's  praise  did  sound, 
If  'twere  "  dose." 

Long  years  he's  labored  on, 
•*"  The  morning  hues  are  gone 

From  his  sky ; 
For  others  are  his  hours, 
For  others  are  his  powers — 
And  his  days,  like  passing  showers, 

Flitting  by. 

You  can  see  him,  night  by  night, 
By  the  lamp's  dull  dreamy  light, 

Standing  there, 
With  cobweb  curtains  spread 
In  festoons  o'er  his  head, 
That  sooty  showers  shed 

In  his  hair. 

And  when  the  waning  moon 
Proclaims  of  night  the  noon, 

If  you  roam, 

You  may  see  him,  weak  and  frail, 
As  his  weary  steps  do  fail, 
In  motion  like  the  snail, 

Wending  home. 

His  form  by  years  is  bent, 
To  his  hair  a  tinge  is  lent 

Sadly  gray ; 

And  his  teeth  are  sore  decayed, 
And  his  eyes  their  trust  betrayed, — 
Great  havoc  Time  has  made 

With  his  clay. 

But  soon  will  come  the  day 
When  his  form  will  pass  away 

From  your  view, 
And  the  spot  shall  know  no  more 
The  sorrows  that  he  bore, 
Or  the  disappointments  sore 

That  he  knew. 


31 


EPITAPH  ON  A  PRINTER. 


Here  lies  a  type  of  being,  who  was  wont 

To  live  by  types  he  drew  from  out  a  font ; 

And  while  he  labored  thus  for  daily  bread, 

He  rais'd  th'  immortal  part  of  many  dead ; 

Clothed  it  in  types  of  thought,  the  second  birth, 

And  sent  it  forth,  again  to  walk  the  earth. 

Yet  e'en  the  font  he  drew  from, — all  his  art, 

Could  not  protect  him  from  the  fatal  dart : 

The  types  of  thought  with  which  he  those  renewed, 

Supplied  his  wasting  form  with  nought  but  food ; — 

But  food  alone  could  not  preserve  his  breath, 

He  lost  it,  and  became, — a  type  of  death. 

'Tis  a  sad  case,  and  this  impression  goes 

To  add  another  page  to  human  woes. 


APPEND  IX, 


PRINTING   IN   AMERICA. 

THE  first  paper-mill  in  America  was  erected  in  Boston,  in  1730, 
the  legislature  of  Massachusetts  granting  aid.  The  first  type-foundry 
was  established  at  Germantown,  Pennsylvania,  several  years  before 
the  Revolution,  from  which  the  Bible  and  other  works  were  printed 
in  the  German  language.  As  late  as  1810,  there  were  but  three^ 
type-foundries  in  the  United  States.  The  first  printing-press  in  the 
colonies,  and  for  twenty  years  the  only  one  in  North  America 
between  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  and  the  Frozen  Ocean,  was  established  j 
at  Cambridge,  in  1638.  It  was  nearly  a  century  later,  (1727,)  I 
before  the  Virginia  colonists  permitted  a  press  to  be  set  up.  Rev. 
Jesse  Glover  procured  the  press  used  at  Cambridge,  by  contributions 
of  friends  of  learning  and  religion  in  Amsterdam  and  in  England, 
but  died  on  his  passage  to  the  new  world.  Stephen  Day  was  the  first 
printer,  and  as  such  received  a  grant  of  300  acres  of  land.  The 
third  book  published  was  "  The  Psalms  in  Metre."  In  1661,  the 
New  Testament  and  Baxter's  Call,  translated  by  Elliot  into  Indian 
language,  were  printed,  at  a  cost  of  some  £1,200.  The  whole  Bible 
was  printed  in  1663.  The  nation  speaking  this  language  is  now 
extinct. 

The  first  newspaper  printed  in  the  North  American  colonies  was 
called  "The  Boston  News-Letter,"  and  was  issued  in  1740.  It 
was  printed  by  B.  Green,  and  published  by  John  Campbell,  a 
Scotchman,  who  was  postmaster  and  a  bookseller  at  Boston.  ^Some- 
times it  had  one  advertisement,  and  often  none.  After  fourteen 
years,  wheen  300  were  sold,  the  publisher  announced  that  his 
weekly  half  sheet  being  insufficient  to  keep  up  with  the  foreign 
news,  he  should  issue  an  extra  sheet  each  fortnight ;  which  expedient 


300  APPENDIX. 

he  announces,  after  a  year,  has  enabled  the  "  News-Letter "  ten 
recover  eight  months  of  the  thirteen  that  it  was  behind  in  the  news 
from  Europe ;  so  that  those  who  would  hold  on  till  the  next  January, 
(five  months,)  might  expect  to  have  all  the  arrearages  of  intelligence 
from  the  old  world  "  needful  for  to  be  known  jn  these  parts."  After 
sixteen  years,  the  publisher  gives  notice  that  copies  of  the  "  News- 
Letter  "  would  be  "  printed  on  a  whole  sheet  of  writing  paper,  one 
half  of  which  would  be  blank,  on  which  letters  might  be  written,  etc. 


EARLY   PRINTERS. 

MOST  of  the  early  printers  were  men  of  profound  erudition ;  and 
the  printing  office  was  then,  in  the  old  sense  of  the  word,  a  "  temple 
of  learning."  In  the  first  days  of  the  art  of  printing,  its  professors 
very  often  wrote  or  edited  the  works  which  they  gave  to  the  world — 
and  these,  it  will  be  remembered,  were  composed  in  the  learned 
languages. — Among  the  most  celebrated  of  these  early  printers  is 
the  family  of  Stevens,  who,  for  more  than  a  century,  astonished 
the  world  by  their  vast  erudition,  as  well  as  by  the  magnificent 
specimens  of  typography  which  issued  from  their  press.  "  The 
press,"  says  Hulcam,  "  might  be  called  the  central  point  of  illumi- 
nation to  all  Europe."  In  the  year  1557,  Henry  Stevens,  the  star 
of  the  family,  published  more  editions  of  ancient  authors  than  would 
have  been  sufficient  to  make  the  reputation  of  another  author. 
His  Greek  Thesaurus  remains  to  this  day  the  great  lexicon  of  this 
language. 

Robert  Stevens,  the  third  in  succession,  was  distinguished  for  his 
very  beautiful  edition  of  the  Greek  Testament,  which  forms  the 
basis  of  the  one  now  in  common  use.  An  idea  may  be  formed  of 
his  extensive  erudition,  as  well  as  of  the  learning  of  the  times,  from 
the  following  account  of  his  biographers :  "  He  received  only  such 
compositors  into  his  printing-office  as  were  conversant  with  the 
Greek  and  Latin  languages. — His  workmen,  in  and  about  the  office, 
were  obliged  to  speak  Latin\  His  wife  and  daughter  understood  this 
language  thoroughly,  and  assisted  him  in  carrying  his  directions  into 
effect ;  so  that  throughout  his  whole  house  and  printing-establishment, 
from  the  bureau  of  business  to  the  kitchen,  nothing  was  heard  but 
the  Latin  tongue.  He  usually  employed  the  proof-readers  all  from 


APPENDIX.  301 

^ 

foreign  countries,  who  spoke  the  various  languages  which  they 
corrected.  The  zeal  of  this  early  and  learned  printer  for  study,  for 
maintaining  the  honor  and  dignity  of  the  press,  and  for  the  public 
good  in  general,  is  worthy  of  the  highest  commendation ;  and  his 
character  in  this  respect  is  worthy  of  imitation  by  all  the  members 
of  the  craft. 

The  glory  of  the  house  of  Stevens  was  shared  by  five  successive 
generations,  first  in  Paris,  and  afterwards  at  Geneva,  in  Switzerland. 


BERANGER— A   PRINTER. 

"  AND  were  you  really  a  printer,  Monsieur  Beranger  ?"  said  I  to 
the  Chansonnier,  as  we  sat  chattingvin  his  little  breakfast  room,  at 
Passy,  one  fine  morning  in  May  last. 

"  That  I  was,  and  a  famous  one  too ;  nor  do  I  ever  take  up  a 
book  without  scanning  the  title-page,  for  I  always  excelled  in  com- 
posing title-pages.  Hand-bills,  too,  I  used  to  like  to  work  upon,  and 
well  remember  one  Hue  Monday,  when  all  alone  in  the  office,  poring 
over  an  odd  volume  of  poetry,  an  old  farmer  came  in  with  an  order 
for  some  auction  placards.  Though  I  had  not  been  in  the  office 
three  months,  I  took  the  composing-stick  in  hand,  then  locked  up  my* 
form,  put  it  to  press,  and  by  "stepping  upon  a  stool  to  fly  the  frisket, 
worked  off  the  job — presenting  my  master  the  next  morning  with  a 
specimen,  and  the  money  I  had  received.  He  was  so  pleased,  good 
man,  that  he  gave  me  the  money  and  half  a  day  to  spend  it  in — and 
a  happy  half  day  it  was." — B.  PERLEY  POORE. 


THE  ALDINE  FAMILY. 

THERE  is  nothing  in  history  comparable  to  the  devotion  to  the 
cause  of  letters  manifested  by  this  distinguished  Venetian  family. 
Thfcy  were  not  only  skilful  Printers,  but  also  accomplished 'Scholars. 
The  elder  Aldus  was  the  most  remarkable  man  of  his  time,  and  by 
the  profoundness  of  his  learning,  and  his  skill  as  an  artist,  his  editions 
are  still  considered  models  of  typographical  beauty.  He  also  in- 
vented the  italic  type,  which  is  said  to  be  an  exact  imitation  of  the 
Handwriting  of  Petrarch. 


302  A  P  P  E  N  D  I  X  . 


FEMALE   PRINTE'RS. 

THE  Declaration  of  Independence,  as  appears  from  a  printed  copy 
in  the  office  of  the  Secretary  of  State,  transmitted  to  the  Convention 
in  North  Carolina  in  1777,  by  John  Hancock,  and  bearing  his  signa- 
ture, in  his  own  handwriting,  as  President  of  the  Congress  of  '76, 
was  originally  printed  by  MARY  CATHERINE  GODDARDI  *  There  were 
women  in  those  days.  No  wonder  that  glorious  Declaration  was 
so  successfully  maintained  by  the  gallant  spirits  of  the-  Revolution. 

Although  at  the  period  of  the  Revolution  it  was  not  customary  to 
employ  females  in  printing-offices,  yet  a  woman  "  master-printer " 
was  not  an  uncommon  thing. 

MARGARET  DRAPER,  the  widow  of  Richard,  succeeded  her  hus- 
band, in  1774,  as  publisher  of  the  Boston  News-Letter,*  and 
conducted  its  concerns  herself  for  some  time.  When  the  British 
evacuated  Boston,  Mrs.  Draper  left  with  the  army,  and  went  to 
England,  where  she  received  a  pension  from  the  government. 

ANNE  CATHARINE  GREEN  published  a  paper  in  Annapolis,  Md., 
and  printed  for  the  colony  before  the  Revolution. 

MARY  CATHERINE  GODDARD,  who  is  spoken  of  in  the  above  ex- 
tract, was  a  sister  of  William  Goddard,  the  first  printer  in  Providence, 
R.  I.  He  published  the  Maryland  Journal,  in  Baltimore,  in  the 
early  part  of  the  Revolution.  When  Congress  superseded  the  British 
government  in  the  management  of  the  post-office,  Dr.  Franklin,  being 
Postmaster  General,  appointed  Goddard  Comptroller  and  Surveyor  of 
the  post-roads.  During  the  time  that  he  was  thus  engaged  in  public 
affairs,  his  sister  ably  conducted  the  concerns  of  the  printing-house. 
The  paper,  and  every  work  which  issued  from  the  press  appeared  in 
her  name.  She  kept  the  post-office  and  continued  the  newspaper 
until  her  brother  resumed  it  in  1784. 

There  were  women  too,  in  earlier  times,  connected  with  the 
typographic  art  in  this  country.  A  printer's  wife  was  selected  by  an 
English  author — the  curious  John  Dunton — who  visited  Boston  in 
1686,  as  a  model  of  "the  best  of  wives."  Mrs.  Green,  wife  of 
Samuel  Green,  printer,  of  Boston,  was  not  "  only  a  loving,  a  faithful, 
and  an  obedient  wife,  but  an  industrious  wife,  too ;  managing  that 
part  of  her  husband's  which  he  had  deputed  to  her  with  as  much 
application  and  dexterity,  as  if  she  had  never  come  into  the  house ; 

*  The  first  paper  published  in  America. 


A  P  E  E  N  D  I  X  .  303 

X 

and  yet  she  managed  her  house  as  if  she  had  never  gone  into  the 
printing-house."  In  summing  up  Mrs.  Green's  character,  Dunton 
says,  "  she  was  indeed  an  extraordinary  woman  ;"  but  he  very 
properly  adds,  "  her  husband  was  so  good  a  man,  she  couldn't  well 
be  otherwise."  So  of  Mrs.  Wilkins,  a  publisher  in  Boston  in  1686, 
Dunton  sayfe,  "  'Tis  virtue  to  know  her,  wisdom  to  converse  with  her, 
and  joy  to  behold  her;  or,  to  do  her  justice  in  fewer  words,  she  is  the 
counterpart  of  her  husband,  who  is  a  pious  man,  if  there  is  such  a 
thing  in  Boston." 

ANNE  FRANKLIN. — The  first  newspaper  printed  in  Rhode  Island, 
was  at  Newport,  in  1732.  James  Franklin,  a  brother  of  the  Doctor, 
was  publisher.  He  died  soon  after,  and  his  widow  continued  the 
business  several  years.  She  was  printer  to  the  colony,  supplied 
blanks  to  the  public  offices,  published  pamphlets,  &c.  The  Newport 
Mercury,  which  is  now  regularly  issued,  grew  out  of  this  printing- 
office,  in  1756,  and  is  the  oldest  paper  in  the  country.  In  1745, 
Mrs.  Franklin  printed  for  the  government  an  edition  of  the  Laws 
containing  340  pages.  She  was  aided  in  her  office  by  her  two 
daughters.  They  were  correct  and  quick  compositors,  and  very 
sensible  women.  A  servant  of  the  house  usually  worked  the  press. 
Gregory  Dexter,  an  early  settler  of  Providence,  usually  worked 
for  her  when  she  had  a  large  job,  or  an  almanac  to  get  out.  It 
seems  printing  with  type  was  not  her  only  business.  Read  her 
advertisement. 

"  The  Printer  hereof,  prints  linens,  calicoes,  silks,  &c.,  in  figures, 
very  lively  and  durable  colors,  and  without  the  offensive  smell 
which  commonly  attends  linen  printed  here." 

Mrs.  SARAH  GODDARD,  was  also  a  printer  at  Providence,  in  1776. 
She  was  born  in  Rhode  Island,  was  the  widow  of  Giles  Goddard, 
of  New  London.  She  received  a  good  education,  and  was  well 
acquainted  with  many  branches  of  literature.  She  had  the  man- 
agement  of  a  newspaper,  and  conducted  it  with  much  ability  for  two 
years,  when  John  Carter  associated  with  her,  under  the  firm  of 
Sarah  Goddard  &  Co. 

Mrs.  CORNELIA  BRADFORD,  was  the  widow  of  Andrew  Bradford, 
who  died  in  Philadelphia,  in  1742.  She  continued  the  printing 
business  for  a  number  of  years,  and  retired  with  a  sufficiency  of 
"worldly  lucre." 

In  the  same  city,  Mrs.  JANE  AITKIN,  at  the  death  of  her  father, 
in  1802,  continued  the  business.  Her  reputation  was  high,  from  the 
productions  which  issued  from  her  press.  She  was  also  noted  for 
her  correctness  in  proof-reading. 


304  APPENDIX. 

Mrs.  ZENGER,  the  widow  of  John  P.  Zenger,  who  published 
the  second  newspaper  established  in  New-York,  carried  on  the 
business  for  years  after  his  death.  She  was  a  modest  woman ;  the 
exact  reverse  of  her  husband,  who  managed  to  have  many  libel 
suits  on  hand.  The  consequence  was,  Zenger  got  into  full  intimacy 
with  the  prisons  for  giving  public  utterance  to  his  liftlral  views. 
Mrs.  Zenger  conducted  the  "New- York  Weekly  Journal,"  with 
ability,  for  three  years,  until  1748. 

Mrs.  MARY  HOLT,  widow  of  John  Holt,  and  publisher  of  the 
"  New- York  Journal,"  in  1793,  was  appointed  printer  to  this  State. 
The  paper  did  powerful  service  during  the  Revolution. 

Mrs.  HASSEBOTCH. — The  first  printer  in  Baltimore  was  Nicholas 
Hassebotch.  He  was  succeeded  by  his  widow,  who  did  up  business 
with  expedition.  In  1773,  a  missionary  had  a  Bible  in  his  hand, 
explaining  it  to  a  party  of  Indians.  He  pronounced  it  to  be  "  the 
Gospel,  the  truth,  the  word  of  God."  "  What,"  said  one  of  them, 
'-'  Did  the  Great  All-Powerful  make  this  book  ?"  "  Yes,"  replied  the 
missionary,  "  it  is  his  work."  The  Indian,  taking  the  literal  import 
of  the  words,  answered  indignantly,  "I  believe  it  to  be  a  great  lie. 
I  go  to  Baltimore  last  month,  when  I  see  Dutch  woman  make  him. 
The  Great  Spirit  want  no  Dutchman  to  help  him." 

Mrs.  H.  BOYLE  published  a  paper  at  Williamsburgh,  Va.,  in 
1774.  It  favored  the  Crown,  and  lived  but  a  short  time. 

CLEMENTINE  BIRD  succeeded  her  husband  in  the  Virginia 
Gazette,  in  1772.  T.  W.  Jefferson  was  a  contributor.  She  died 
in  1775. 

Mrs.  ELIZABETH  TIMOTHEE,  after  the  death  of  her  husband,  in 
1773,  continued  publishing  the  Gazette,  in  Charleston,  S.  C.  She 
conducted  the  press  two  years,  when  her  son  took  it. 

ANNE  TIMOTHEE,  the  widow  of  the  son  of  Elizabeth,  just  men- 
tioned, after  the  Revolutionary  war  ceased,  revived  the  Gazette, 
which  had  been  established  by  the  elder  Timothee.  It  had  been  dis- 
continued while  the  British  troops  were  in  possession  of  Charleston. 
She  was  appointed  printer  to  the  State,  and  held  the  office  until  1792. 

MARY  CROUCH  was  the  widow  of  Charles  Crouch,  and  was  born 
in  Rhode  Island.  Her  husband  established  a  paper  in  opposition  to 
the  Stamp  Act,  in  Charleston,  S.  C.  Mrs.  Crouch  continued  the 
paper  until  1780,  when  she  removed  to  Salem,  Mass.,  and  took  her 
press  and  type  with  her.  She  published  a  paper  at  Salem  for  some 
years,  and  returned  to  Providence  with  a  purse  sufficient  for 
"  creature  comforts "  during  her  life. 


APPENDIX.  305 

.  PENELOPE  RUSSELL  succeeded  her  husband  in  printing  the 
"Censor,"  at  Boston,  in  1771.  She  was  a  very  industrious  and 
active  woman.  She  not  only  set  type,  but  while  at  her  case, 
invoked  her  muse  and  put  up  type  on  tragical  events,  in  an 
interesting  manner,  without  any  written  copy. 

In  Connecticut,  Mrs.  WATSON,  the  widow  of  Ebenezer  Watson, 
who  died  in  1777,  continued  one  of  the  publishers  of  the  Courant, 
at  Hartford,  for  two  years,  when  a  gentleman  of  steady  habits  took 
her  as  his  sleeping  partner.  The  Courant  is  still  published. 


THE  PRINTER'S  BOY. 

MR.  BUCKINGHAM,  in  his  23d  number  of  the  "Croaker,"  published 
in  the  Boston  Courier,  briefly  notices  the  hands  in  the  printing-office  in 
which  he  was  first  employed  in  Boston,  and  speaks  of  the  youngest 
apprentice  as  follows:  • 

The  third  and  youngest  apprentice  has  always  floated  on  the 
flood-tide  of  prosperity,  a  tide  which  yet  knows  no  retiring  ebb. 
His  duty  was  then  (like  all  youngest  apprentices),  to  make  the  fires, 
sweep  the  office,  pick  up  the  types  that  were  dropped  on  the  floor, 
distribute  pi,  and  tread  the  pelts.  Having  passed  this  state  of  tribula- 
tion, and  finished  his  time  of  service,  he  began  business  in  State-street, 
at  the  corner  of  Flag  Alley,  a  locality  which  is  now  dignified  with 
the  name  of  Exchange  Avenue,  where  he  and  his  partner  published 
a  weekly  literary  journal  entitled  "  The  Emerald." 

He  removed  to  Charleston,  where  he  published  a  well  known 
monthly  religious  magazine  called  "The  Panoplist."  Returning 
after  some  years  to  Boston,  he  pursued  the  business  of  printing  and 
publishing  on  a  more  extended  scale,  and  to  that  business  added 
the  very  natural  one  of  a  bookseller.  His  industry  was  untiring, 
his  friends  wealthy  and  willing  to  aid — his  publication  popular  with 
a  large  and  zealous  religious  party,  and  his  profits  sure  and  rapidly 
increasing.  He  could  not  be  otherwise  than  rich ;  he  retired  from 
active  business  many  years  ago,  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of  his  enterprise 
and  perseverance.  But  the  public  required  his  services.  He 
represented  Boston  several  times  in  the  General  Court,  has  been 
Mayor  of  the  city,  Lieutenant  Governor,  and  for  the  greater  part  of 
one  year,  acting  Governor  of  the  Commonwealth. 


306  APPENDIX. 

He  has  twice  visited  Europe,  and  spent  some  years  in  London, 
Paris,  and  Rome.  His  mansion  is  one  of  the  most  delightful 
situations  in  the  city,  and  here  he  lives  in  an  enviable  state  of  ease, 
affluence  and  independence.  What  a  contrast  is  exhibited  in  the 
early  and  the  present  condition  of  this  gentleman  !  And  what  a 
contrast  between  his  condition  and  the  most  of  those  who  have  been 
his  contemporaries  from  boyhood  to  grayheaded  old  age  !  Well,  his 
wealth  and  honors  have  been  honestly  and  honorably  acquired. 
May  he  too  live  long,  unmolested  by  the  "  moth  and  rust "  which 
corrupt  earthly  treasures,  and  at  the  close,  find  all  the  pages  of  his 
life  approvingly  "registered" 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  the  person  referred  to  is 
Lieutenant  Governor  Armstrong. — Boston  Transcript. 


PRINTERS   AND   AUTHORS. 

N.  P.  WILLIS,  in  the  Home  Journal,  thus  lays  claim  to  his  right 
as  one  of  the  brotherhood  of  Faustus : 

If  there  were  an  apprenticeship  to  the  trade  of  authorship,  it  would 
be  as  essential  that  a  young  author  should  pass  a  year  as  a  compo- 
sitor in  a  printing-office,  as  that  a  future  sea-captain  should  make  a 
voyage  before  the  mast.  It  is  not  alone  that  he  would  thus  learn  the 
importance  of  properly  preparing  his  "  copy  "  for  the  printers,  by 
a  legible  penmanship,  and  a  knowledge  of  the  signs,  marks  and 
abbreviations  by  which  proof  is  corrected.  These  are  matters,  an 
acquaintance  with  which,  on  the  part  of  the  author,  would  save 
much  time  and  vexation,  and  prevent  serious  blunders.  The  chief 
advantages  would  be  to  the  author  himself.  There  is  no  such 
effectual  analysis  of  style  as  the  process  of  type-setting.  As  he 
takes  up  letter  by  letter,  of  a  long  or  complex  sentence,  the  com- 
positor becomes  most  critically  aware  of  where  the  sentence  might 
have  been  shortened  to  save  his  labor.  He  detects  repetitions, 
becomes  impatient  of  redundancies,  recognizes  careless  or  inappro- 
priate use  of  expletives,  and  soon  acquires  a  habit  of  putting  an 
admiring  value  on  clearness  and  brevity.  We  venture  to  say  that 
it  would  alter  the  whole  character  of  American  literature,  if  the 
authors,  (of  our  fluent  nation  !)  were  compelled,  before  legally 
receiving  a  copy-right,  to  have  given  one  year  to  labor  at  thfe  com- 


APPENDIX.  307 

positor's  case.  We  have  said  nothing  of  the  art  of  nice  punctuation, 
;  which  is  also  acquired  in  a  printing-office,  and  by  which  a  style 
is  made  as  much  more  tasteful  as  champagne  by  effervescing. 

Journeymen  printers  are,  necessarily,  well-instructed  and  intel- 
ligent men.  It  is  a  part  of  a  proof-reader's  duty  to  mark  a  "query" 
against  every  passage  in  a  new  book  which  he  dose  not  clearly 
comprehend.  Authors  who  know  what  is  valuable,  profit  by  these 
quiet  estimates  of  their  meaning  ;  and  many  a  weak  point,  that 
would  have  ruined  a  literary  reputation,  if  left  uncorrected  for  the 
reviewers  to  handle,  has  been  noiselessly  put  right  by  a  proof- 
reader's unobtrusive  "  qu  ?"  Of  most  books,  indeed,  we  would 
rather  have  the  criticism  of  the  workmen  in  the  office  where  it  was 
printed,  than  of  the  reviewers  who  skim  over  and  pronounce  upon  it. 

We  speak  with  some  little  authority  on  this  subject,  not  only 
because  father  and  grandfather  of  our  own  were  printers  and  news- 
paper editors  before  us,  but  because  we  have  ourself  profited  by  the 
discipline  of  which  we  speak.  A  rebellion  against  Greek  and  Latin 
in  boyhood,  was  very  sensibly  met  by  the  putting  of  us  to  work 
at  the  compositor's  case,  and  we  did  not  leave  it  to  resume  an 
education,  till  (after  two  years'  practice)  we  could  "  set  and  distri- 
bute "  like  a  journeyman.  Our  labor  was  upon  the  religious 
newspaper,  the  Boston  Recorder,  and  we  well  remember  the  grati- 
fication with  which  we  obtained  the  exclusive  'privilege  of  setting 
from  the  manuscript  of  Rev.  Richard  Storrs,  one  of  the  contributors 
— the  style  was  so  seizable  by  the  memory  and  so  invariably  brief 
and  to  the  point.  Whatever  may  have  been  the  merit  of  our  own 
tyle  of  writing  since,  we  are  convinced  that,  we  owe,  at  least  its 
freedom  from  certain  defects,  to  the  training  we  received  while  so 
small  as  to  stand  perched  upon  two  type-boxes  at  a  "  brevier-case." 

Mr.  B.  PERLEY  POORE,  editor  of  the  Boston  Bee,  in  copying  the 
above,  thus  speaks : — 

We  can  fully  endorse  Mr.  Willis's  remarks,  having  "  profited  by 
the  discipline,"  when  young,  and  a  truant  from  home.  We  entered 
a  printing-office  a  spoiled  "eldest  son,"  who  had  devoted  more 
attention  to  Shetland  ponies  and  a  juvenile  infantry  company  than  to 
his  books,  and  at  the  end  of  our  apprenticeship  could  write  almost  as 
well  as  we  can  now — this  is  not  saying  much  perhaps,  but  we  will 
show  our  "  copy,"  for  plainness  and  correctness,  with  any  profes- 
sional writer  in  the  country.  It  used  to  be  rather  hard  to  wash 
rollers  and  bring  wood,  but  we  had  a  pretty  good  time  after  all.  A 
piece  of  warm  gingerbread,  the  regular  donation  of  the  subscribers  at 


APPENDIX. 

a  baker's  shop  when  their  paper  was  handed  in  to  them  early  in  the 
morning,  had  far  more  relish  than  the  sumptuous  banquets  tasted  at 
royal  entertainments  within  five  years  afterwards.  The  heart  of  the 
ill-clad  running  newspaper  carrier  was  lighter  and  merrier  than 
when  it  was  afterwards  encased  in  an  old  embroidered  diplomatic 
coat. 


A   CENTURY   AGO. 

BUT  for  the  inopportune  rush  of  the  foreign  news,  and,  what  has 
still  more  subdued  our  moralizing  propensities,  the  tremendous  heat 
of  the  weather  last  evening  and  night,  we  should  have  ventured  a 
homily  this  morning  upon  the  text  of  a  copy,  now  lying  on  our  table, 
of  the  "Pennsylvania  Gazette  " — Benjamin  Franklin's  Pennsylvania 
Gazette — of  the  date  of  June  22,  1749 — that  is  to  say,  of  this  date 
one  hundred  years  back  !  A  look  at  the  little  piece  of  brown 
wrapping  paper,  just  thirteen  by  sixteen  inches  square,  in  which  the 
philospher  was  content  to  address  himself  to  the  world — or  wilder- 
ness of  Philadelphia — at  that  time — not  to  speak  of  an  inspection  of 
its  contents — would  satisfy  every'one  that  a  great  many  things  might 
be  said  with  propriety  on  such  an  interesting  subject,  in  relation  to 
newspapers — in  relation  to  the  world,  which  has  changed  quite  as 
much  as  newspapers — to  America — to  the  mighty  Republic  which 
Benjamin  Franklin,  although  at  that  time  suspecting  and  about  to 
trace  the  existence  of  electricity  in  the  clouds  of  heaven,  never 
dreamed  was  to  flash  out  with  the  lightning's  power  and  splendor 
from  the  misty  future  of  the  Colonies.  We  have  space  for  a  single 
glance  at  one  or  two  of  its  characteristics. 

What  do  our  readers  suppose  is  the  subject  of  the  "  leader " 
in  our  ancient  and  reverend  antetemporary,  edited  by  Benjamin 
Franklin  ?  For  their  satisfaction  we  extract  the  whole  article, 
which  is  only  two  lines  long,  it  is  stuck  away  in  the  modest  corner 
at  the  bottom  of  the  third  column  of  the  third  page,  and  is  about  all 
the  matter,  in  the  whole  paper,  that  bears  unmistakable  evidence  of 
its  origin.  It  is  in  the  following  words : 

"  All  persons  indebted  to  a  year's  Gazette  or  more,  are  desired 
to  pay." 

Another   remarkable    feature   about   this    ancient    Philadelphia 


APPENDIX.  309 

paper,  is  the  advertisements  it  contains  of  the  sale  of  slaves,  of  which 
we  find  three  or  four ;  one  relating  to  a  whole  "  snow"  load  of  "  men 
and 'women  servants"  with  "indentures;"  "a  negro  wench,  19 
years  old,"  who  "can  wash,  iron,  and  cook  very  well;"  "a  likely 
negro  woman  with  a  young  child,"  "  fit  for  town  or  country  busi- 
ness;" "a  young  negro  man  who  has  had  the  small  pox,"  &c.,  &c. 
Decidedly,  the  world  is  one  hundred  years  older  in  Philadelphia. — 
North  American,  June  22. 


A  PRINTER-PROFESSOR. 

A  FEW  years  since  there  might  have  been  seen  in  one  of  the 
printing-offices  in  this  city,  a  young  man  of  the  medium  stature,  and 
pale,  thoughtful  countenance.  He  is  pulling  at  the  press,  where  he 
labors  for  ten  hours  a  day.  Go  hence  with  him  to  his  room,  where 
he  has  half  a  dozen  books  on  a  small  table — a  pitcher  of  water,  and 
perchance  a  loaf,  or  some  biscuits  and  cheese.  Sit  with  him  while 
he  takes  his  fare,  plain  and  severe  as  it  is,  and  no  way  calculated 
to  enervate  with  luxury  or  inebriate  with  its  fumes.  See  him  set 
it  aside,  and  then  with  earnest  patience  and  application  open  the 
books  before  him.  He  is  learning  one  of  the  Teuton  tongues.  Let 
us  visit  him  six  months  afterwards ;  he  has  advanced  with  the  mas- 
sive German.  Watch  him  toiling ;  and  while  waiting  for  a  job  in  his 
office,  while  other  idlers  are  chatting  around,  see  him  poring  over 
that  well  used  book ;  it  is  a  Latin  Reader.  Slowly,  but  unflinchingly, 
he  keeps  on  his  way,  and  Homer  becomes  his  companion  and  Eu- 
ripides his  room-mate.  Mark  how  attentively  he  delves  in  the  rich 
stores  between  those  venerable  covers — he  is  holding  converse  with 
the  shade  of  Plato — or  breathing  the  divine  atmosphere  of  Hebrew 
poetry.  Mark  how  he  toils  and  falls  asleep  in  his  office  for  want  of 
rest ;  the  feeble  frame  staggers  but  falls  not — and  he  goes  home  to 
revel  in  the  Alhambra,  or  catch  the  soft  breath  of  the  balmy  cli- 
mate of  an  Italian  sky.  And  after  having  thus  seen  him  toil  for  a 
period,  with  almost  unequalled  effort,  scarce  ten  years  passed  from 
the  date  of  our  first  interview,  let  us  walk  into  this  noble  pile,  and 

listen  to  the  lectures  of  Professor  ,  who  masters  some  ten 

languages,  and  receives  the  respect  and  confidence  and  admiration 
of  the  learned,  and  will  some  day  receive  the  tribute  of  his  country- 


310  ^APPENDIX. 

men.  This  is  not  a  fanciful  picture,  but  a  hurried  outline  of  a 
living  character,  whose  name  we  can  scarcely  refrain  from  giving 
to  our  readers. 

[We  wish  the  writer  of  the  above  had  given  the  name.  We  are  not  posi- 
tive to  whom  he  refers,  as  there  are  several  who  would  answer  very  well  to 
the  description ;  but  we  know  that  it  will  apply  as  closely  to  Prof.  W.  W. 
TURNER,  of  the  Union  Theological  Seminary,  N.  Y.,  as  to  any  other  per- 
son.— EDITOR.] 


POOR  RICHARD'S  ALMANAC. 

MR.  SPARKS,  in  his  life  of  Franklin,  referring  to  this  Almanac, 
says:  "It  is  believed  that  a  complete  edition  of  Poor  Richard's  Al- 
manac is  not  now  in  existence.  After  much  research,  I  have  not 
been  able  to  find  more  than  one-third  of  the  numbers  that  were 
published.5'* 

Speaking  of  this  work  in  his  autobiography,  Franklin  says : 
"  In  1732,  I  first  published  my  Almanac  under  the  name  of 
Richard  Saunders;  it  was  continued  by  me  about  25  years,  and 
commonly  called  Poor  Richard's  Almanac.  1  endeavored  to  make 
it  both  entertaining  and  useful,  and  it  accordingly  came  to  be  in 
such  demand,  that  I  reaped  considerable  profit  from  it ;  vending  an- 
nually near  ten  thousand.  And  observing  that  it  was  generally 
read,  scarce  any  neighborhood  in  the  province  being  without  it,  I 
considered  it  as  a  proper  vehicle  for  conveying  instruction  among 
the  common  people,  who  bought  scarcely  any  other  books.  I  there- 
fore filled  all  the  little  spaces  that  occurred  between  the  remarka- 
ble days  in  the  calendar,  with  proverbial  sentences,  chiefly  such 
as  inculcated  industry  and  frugality,  as  the  means  of  procuring 
wealth,  and  thereby  securing  virtue  ;  it  being  as  difficult  for  a 
man  in  want  to  act  always  honestly,  as,  to  use  here  one  of  those 
proverbs,  as  it  is  hard  for  an  empty  sack  to  stand  upright. 

*  We  have  been  more  fortunate  than  Mr.  Sparks,  for  we  have  recently 
had  the  pleasure  of  examining  a  complete  set  of  the  Almanac,  now  in  pos- 
session of  John  Doggett,  Esq.,  the  proprietor  of  the  N.  Y.  Directory.  Mr. 
Doggett  was  many  years  in  completing  his  file,  and  paid  in  some  instances  as 
high  as  $10  for  an  odd  copy.  His  is  probably  the  only  complete  set  extant. — 
EDITOR. 


APPENDIX.  311 

"  These  proverbs,  which  contained  the  wisdom  of  many  ages  and 
nations,  I  assembled  and  formed  into  a  connected  discourse  prefixed 
to  the  Almanac  of  1757,  as  the  harangue  of  a  wise  old  man  to 
the  people  attending  an  auction.  The  bringing  all  these  scattered 
counsels  thus  into  a  focus  enabled  them  to  make  greater  impression. 
The  piece,  being  universally  approved,  was  copied  in  all  the  news- 
papers on  the  American  continent,  reprinted  in  Britain  on  a  large 
sheet  of  paper,  to  be  stuck  up  in  houses ;  two  translations  were 
made  of  it  in  France,  and  great  numbers  bought  by  the  clergy  and 
gentry,  to  distribute  gratis  among  their  poor  parishioners  and  ten- 
ants. In  Pennsylvania,  as  it  discouraged  useless  expenses  in  foreign 
superfluities,  some  thought  it  had  its  share  of  influence  in  produc- 
ing that  growing  plenty  of  money,  which  was  observable  for  several 
years  after  its  publication." 

Few  compositions  in  any  language  have  been  so  widely  read 
as  this  summary  prefixed  to  the  Almanac  of  1757,  to  which  he  re- 
fers. It  was  translated  three  times  into  the  French  language,  be- 
fore 1800,  and  in  1823  an  edition  in  modern  Greek  appeared  from 
the  press  of  Didot,  at  Paris. 

The  following  is  a  copy  of  the  advertisement  of  the  first  number 
of  Poor  Richard's  Almanac,  "including  the  table  of  contents.  It  was 
printed  in  the  Pennsylvania  Gazette,  on  the  18th  of  December, 
1732,  as  follows : 

"  Just  published,  for  1733,  an  Almanac  containing  the  Luna- 
tions, Eclipses,  Planets'  Motions  and  Aspects,  Weather,  Sun  and 
Moon's  Rising  and  Setting,  High  Water,  &c. ;  besides  many  pleas- 
ant and  witty  Verses,  Jests  and  Sayings ;  Author's  Motive  of  Wri- 
ting ;  Prediction  of  the  Death  of  his  Friend,  Mr.  Titan  Leeds ; 
Moon  no  Cuckold ;  Bachelor's  Folly ;  Parson's  Wine  and  Baker's 
Pudding;  Short  Visits;  Kings  and  Bears;  New  Fashions;  Game 
for  Kisses ;  Katharine's  Love  ;  Different  Sentiments ;  Signs  of  a 
Tempest;  Death  of  a  Fisherman;  Conjugal  Debate;  Men  and 
Melons ;  The  Prodigal ;  Breakfast  in  Bed ;  Oyster  Lawsuit,  <fec. 
By  Richard  Saunders,  Philomat.  Printed  and  sold  by  B.  Franklin." 

In  1749,  Poor  Richard's  Almanac  was  issued  for  the  first  time 
with  illustrations.  These  are  of  the  most  primitive  character,  and 
would  be  without  interest  but  for  the  violent  presumption  that  they 
were  the  work  of  the  Doctor's  own  hands.  He  certainly  did  en- 
grave well  enough  to  have  executed  any  thing  in  these  almanacs, 
for  he  says  in  his  autobiography,  speaking  of  the  printing  of  some 
paper  money  for  New  Jersey :  "  The  New  Jersey  job  was  obtained  ; 


312  APPENDIX. 

I  contrived  a  copper-plate  press  for  it,  the  first  that  had  been 
seen  in  the  country ;  I  cut  several  ornaments  and  checks  for  the 
bills."  The  improbability  of  his  employing  any  one  to  do  what  he 
could  do  himself,  the  difficulty  of  procuring  any  artist  in  the  colony, 
in  1749,  who  was  competent  to  do  them,  and  the  plainness  of  the 
engravings,  which  were  not  worth  paying  any  thing  for,  even  if  the 
publication  was  one  that  could  have  borne  any  such  expense,  are 
the  principal,  and  we  think  sufficient  reasons  for  believing  these  il- 
lustrations were  the  work  of  Franklin. 


,  Here  ends  the  work,— the  last  sheet  of  the  heap 
Has  been  thrown  off,— the  form  is  washed,  and  laid 
Upon  the  board,  stripped  of  its  furniture, 
To  be  forthwith  distributed,  and  then 
The  types  composed  anew: — The  Press  is  thus 
Analogous  with  Nature,  as  she  wheels 
The  changing  seasons,  and  renews  herself 
In  thousand  varying  forms,  from  that  first  font 
Cast  in  the  matrix  of  Almighty  power, 
By  HIM  the  glorious  ARCHETYPE  of  all. 


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